


Angel of Darkness

by Persephoneshadow



Series: Ghost Song [2]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 117,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephoneshadow/pseuds/Persephoneshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A complete retelling and re-imagining of "The Phantom of the Opera."</p><p>Christine Daae has made her choice and agreed to enter Erik's dark underworld. Can she learn to trust the strange man who was once her angel of music or is this doomed to become another ghost story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Her hands shook as she struck the match and the flame quivered as it met the wick of the oil lamp. She waited as the light grew brighter and steadier before as she replaced the glass and extinguished the match. More and more each day she took greater care with each step of such simple processes, drawing them out to fill the hours. Meticulously, she straightened the utensils and napkin on the silver tray and pushed away the smallest smudge of broth from the edge of the bowl. Everything was perfectly in pace. Nothing left to delay her. She braced herself at the foot of the stairs, glancing up towards the darkening hall. The day had been trying, but bearable; it was the nights that were always the worst. Yet the nights were the time when he needed her the most.

“Madame, would you like me to go?” the housemaid asked from behind, her voice quavering. She would have to considering giving the girl a raise for still being willing to relieve her mistress after all the household had endured in the last month. Three others had not been so brave, leaving and grabbing their pay and muttering about curses.

“No, Colette, he is my husband, this is my duty,” Danielle refused and Colette frowned. “I made a promise before God, to stay with him through good and ill. I cannot run away now.”

“As you wish, Madame,” Collette demurred, bowing her head. Danielle forced her hands to stay steady as she gripped the handles of the tray and made her way up to the room. How many weeks since she had thought of it as their room, instead of just the room?

“Who is that? Who is there!” came the voice as she opened the door. 

“It’s just me, Guillame; it’s Danielle,” she consoled her husband even as she closed her eyes on the increasingly burdensome ache at hearing such fear in his voice. She set down the tray and gave an insincere smile as she approached the bed he had been confined to for the majority of the last weeks. 

“I heard other voices,” her husband protested. 

She shook her head sadly as she lit the lamp beside the bed. The man looking up at her in terror was so different from the bold youth she had married twenty yeas ago or the strong, decisive manager of the Opera Garnier she had known just months before. His hair was wild and his ashen skin seemed to hang off his square jaw. Every sound made him jump.

“There are no voices, Guillame, I’ve told you that,” she reassured him as his red-rimmed eyes darted about. “Perhaps you will feel like going out again tomorrow?”

“No! Last time you made me go back there. If I go out again _he_ will punish me,” Guillame whimpered, drawing the sheets around him. 

Danielle stroked her husband’s cheek, detesting the feel of two days worth of gray stubble beneath her fingers. 

“No one will punish you, my dear. The Opera is thriving, though I am sure they miss you. Remember, how I told you about the gala? Carlotta didn’t even sing and it was great success.” She took his hand as he shook his head more vehemently. “The girl who replaced her at the last minute was a sensation. Of course, she’s also caused a bit of a scandal. I’ve heard she disappeared from under everyone’s noses right after the performance. Didn’t even bother to greet the patrons…”

“You see!” Guillame howled, pulling his hand away from her. “Someone is always punished! The ghost never forgets, Danielle! That girl is doomed.”

“Guillame, there is no ghost, I’ve told you…” Danielle groaned. Trying to reason with him worked less and less. “It’s just an old superstition…”

“You would believe me if you had seen that face! If you had...felt those hands…” He began to tremble, his eyes focusing on the darkening sky outside the window as his trembling hands strayed to his neck. 

Danielle grasped his shoulders. “There is nothing there!” she cried, her voice more frantic than she had expected. His eyes locked with hers, so wide she could she the white all around the irises. 

“The _darkness_ is there!” he rasped. “The darkness is where I saw him! I saw his eyes like they were on fire and then the mask! Then he came for me!” 

She threw up her hands and turned away, tears stinging her eyes. There were days when she did wish the ghost was real; that there was a real man she could hate and blame and punish for her husband’s madness. That was impossible though. No man could have done this. A real demon was more likely.

“He said he would come back if I ever returned…” Guillame moaned from the bed.

Danielle stared out the great window to the black sky and the lights of the city. Guillame had been so proud when he bought the house, especially of the view of the distant roof of the opera from the high floors. She could barely make out the sight of Apollo with his golden lyre now. She was glad of it. In all her years in that home, she had never hated the sight more.


	2. Beneath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine returns to the house on the lake.

For the third time in as many days, Christine Daaé followed a ghost through the still, dark labyrinth beneath the Paris Opera. This time was very different, of course. Unlike the first time he had guided her through the depths of the five levels of cellars, she knew her guide was not a ghost, or an angel, but a man. Unlike the second time, when he had been taking her up to release her, she was not so stricken with grief and fear at learning the truth as to not even take in the gloomy details of this hidden domain. This time she had come willingly and her mind was painfully clear. So clear the voices of her conscience and reasonable self were nearly deafening.

_What in God’s name are you doing, you stupid girl?_

The feel of his rough, cold hand holding hers brought more memories, recriminations and questions to her mind than she could ever count. 

Three months ago she had turned in a darkened hall to see a ghost defying her to believe in him, with the saddest eyes she had ever seen. The same night she had heard that ghost’s voice and believed he was an angel. Despite all the terrible stories of the opera ghost, she had kept her faith in her angel, even loved him, until two days ago, when she had awoken in a strange house without windows. 

The night before that her angel had given her everything she had thought she wanted: the starring role at the gala performance of _Faust_ , the adoration of Paris, and himself. The price had been her innocence. She shuddered to think of the other revelations of that morning: his horrifying face, the violence of his rage, and the promise that if she did not return to him, she would never be able to return to the Opera at all. 

_I had to come back_ , she told herself again. This strange, hideous man who had deceived her in every possible way, who pretended to be a ghost and who had the most beautiful voice she had ever heard was her the only hope she had. He had made sure of that. There had been no choice but to return.

They descended down countless stairs and through sepulchral passages that smelled of something damp and ancient. Every so often the distant drip of water and the scurrying of vermin pierced the dark around them. The only other noise was the echo of Christine’s steps and breath in the shadows, for her guide made no sound as he moved. 

Even with the ghost before her eyes and holding her hand, the place seemed haunted and incredibly lonely. She shivered, chilled by the cold and consideration of what sort of a person would willingly live in such a gloomy and terrifying place. 

“Are we going back to your…home?” she asked shakily, if just to stop the relentless noise in her head. 

The ghost glanced away from the near useless lantern he held and caught her eye.

“Yes, I thought it might be the best place to answer your…questions,” he explained, looking away from her quickly. It was strange to hear the perfect voice of her angel of music – dark and soft as the night sky in summer, yet shining like moonlight on cool, rippling water – knowing he was just a man.

“So you do _live_ down there?” she continued, not taking her eyes away from him. 

He was wearing a beautiful, sweeping black cape over a well-tailored suit and a pristine, white shirt. He looked every inch the part of the Phantom; down to the wide brimmed hat and dark expression on the thin lips at the edge of his white mask. 

“Yes,” he answered as he gave her another glance, his eyes glinting like stars in the dark.

“How is that possible?” she murmured, the thought escaping before she could stop it.

“Well, you know how difficult it is to find a decent flat…” he muttered dryly. Christine furrowed her brow and swallowed. He must have caught her look of confusion. “My home is very well hidden. That’s why no one has found me, if that’s what you meant.”

“But I still don’t understand _where_ it is,” Christine prodded. “And I don’t understand why I remember water.” 

“Haven’t you heard the legends of the ghost lurking beyond the lake?” he asked back, looking over his shoulder at her again and giving a dangerous smile. “Or better yet, rising from the tar-black waters at sunset to wander the Opera. I always liked that one.” 

Christine squinted at him, not sure if she was amused by the relish he took in relating the tale.“I thought those are just stories. Why on earth would there be a lake under an opera house?” 

He gave her another look, tension, wariness, mischief and what seemed like a hundred other thoughts and feelings flashing through his shadowed eyes and hinted at in the set of his jaw and the curl of his lips.

“Stranger things have happened.” 

Christine tried to keep her expression benignly interested and not reveal the chill the words gave her. 

“When they were constructing the Opera, twenty years ago, the builders came across a tributary of the Seine, underground, that ran through the very spot where the foundations were to be laid. Instead of moving the site, they drained and dried out the earth and continued to build, but to keep the water in check they installed a lake within the foundations.”

“I still don’t understand…” she pushed, at least more fascinated than frightened.

“They didn’t just dig a hole for the lake, they made a huge casing for it, like a great bowl, and to make sure nothing would leak they built another one around it. There is a great deal of space in-between the two casings.” 

“And that’s where you live, in the space between?” 

He nodded. 

“That’s rather poetic.” 

He glanced at her but in a moment he was looking away again, and in another they had stopped, at the edge of a vast, open space.

“And here we are,” he informed her with a graceful wave of his lantern. “The beginning   
of all the legends.” 

The light reflected on inky black waters and revealed a strange forest of columns and arches rising from the lagoon. Christine caught her breath. What sort of magic had his voice had worked over her that first night that she had barely noticed _this_?

“I remember a boat…” she murmured dreamily.

“There was.” She turned back to him and the intensity of his focus on her made her skin prickle. “There is another entrance, that comes down from behind the stage, much farther from my house. I use the boat to get to that one, though you can walk the edge to get there as well. This is the…back way, as it were.” 

Christine nodded as he guided her along the edge of the lake, trying to find her words again. 

They came to a stop sooner than she expected and her guide withdrew his hand. The loss of contact was like a splash of cold water. 

She could make out the dim outline of a small dock and a boat with an unlit lantern hanging from the prow, waiting upon the lake. The ghost who was a man pressed his hand against an unremarkable expanse of wall and the barrier yielded, swinging inward to reveal a doorway. 

He swept his arm out and gave a small bow, allowing her to enter first as any gentleman might, yet nothing about the gesture seemed gentlemanly and the gleam of the eyes that stayed fixed on her made her shiver again. She had always been able to feel when he was watching her. Even as she looked away, she still felt his gaze as he followed her into his home, the sensation far more powerful than usual. 

They were back in the room where she had first seen him the morning before, only this time she was in control of herself enough to actually see it. 

Christine’s mouth dropped open as she stared around her. How had she failed to notice the massive pipe organ that occupied almost the entire wall opposite what could be termed the front door? It was ornamented in gold and black wood and a great score stood open on the stand. To each side of the organ were shelves bursting with scores and loose pieces of music. Behind the organ, set off a few feet right of the middle of the room was a good-sized piano whose dark, stained wood absorbed the candlelight that filled the room. 

There were no gaslights, Christine realized, just scores of candles, set in at least a dozen candelabrum and individual holders all through the room. Beside one such solitary candle, on a small table beside the piano, was laid a violin. The sight made Christine smile wistfully for the briefest of moments.

On the other side of the room from the piano, to the left of the entrance, was the fireplace, flanked by shelves overflowing with books, and before it were two rather imposing, dark chairs and an antique-looking couch, none of which matched in style or color. The couch was a faded midnight blue, and the chairs were black and brown, one of leather. The walls were not hung with curtains, as his bedchamber had been, instead they looked like they were painted a deep yellow, very much – or perhaps exactly – like the color on the walls of many rooms of the Opera above.

The floor was covered in dozens of finely woven rugs and the yellow walls were hung with all manner of strange pictures and objects. Every shelf and mantle held some treasure or trinket as well. Christine fought the urge to catalog his art and continued to take in the room, remarking that there were four doors that she could see, two on each side. She looked up to the ceiling, which had struck her as oddly dark. With so many candles always burning, it was to be expected. 

Christine gasped when she saw that what she had mistaken for soot was in fact blue-black paint, and upon it in shining gold and silver, was painted a perfect night sky.

“How…” she breathed in unthinking awe. “How did all this get here?”

“I made it.” 

She whipped about to face him again. He looked away from her before she could catch his eyes and removed his hat and cape to hang them neatly on a hook by the door. 

Christine caught her breath again as he looked back at her. In an instant he had transformed from the menacing silhouette of the phantom into _Erik_. She found the man much more frightening than the ghost. This was the man that had lied to her, the man who had seduced her, and most frightening of all, said he loved her. Christine stared at him, despite herself. 

He was exceptionally tall and frighteningly thin. His limp black hair fell well past his ears and a few strands strayed into his masked face. He held himself with a sort of graceful tension, as if each slow, careful movement was made in preparation to suddenly spring away or strike out. Long, slender hands hung at his side, flexing absently and almost as pale as the mask. It was remembering those hands on her skin that finally prompted her to tear her eyes away from him and shiver. 

“Are you…cold?” Erik inquired with surprising hesitancy, his words nearly as tense as his body.

“No…” Christine stuttered. She was still wearing the black, hooded cloak he had given her off his own back the morning before, she realized. She took it off and offered it to him. “I guess you’ll want this back.” 

“Keep it.” The reply was far to quick and cold to be termed polite, Christine thought, as she gave him a nod and she set down the cloak on the back of the aged couch. 

The silence rose between them like the tide. It seemed neither of them knew what to do when faced with their dreams made flesh staring at them through the shadows.

“What do we do now?” Christine asked breathlessly, finally finding the courage to look at him again. 

“You have a habit of asking that when I have no idea how to answer,” he sighed and walked slowly towards the piano. 

“And you have a habit of doing things without planning,” Christine echoed. 

He glanced back at her, something like a smile visible on his lips at the edge of the mask. “You noticed that?” he remarked wryly as he turned and ran his thin hands over the closed lid of the instrument. “I had imagined that before you made any further…choices, that you would want the answers I promised,” he almost whispered. “About why I lied to you.”

“I know why you lied,” Christine snapped and regretted it instantly as Erik winced. She grimaced and took a long breath. “But I don’t understand _how_ you lied, to me and everyone else. Who _are_ you? How on earth do you make people believe you are a ghost? How did you get here? The stories say the ghost has been here since the Opera opened, but that would mean you’ve lived down here for… _six years_?” 

He turned back to her as she took a hesitant step closer.

“Six and half actually” Erik answered with a shrug. 

“But _how_?” Christine repeated, incredulous. “I doubt Charles Garnier designed a lake with a house in it.”

“Well, it’s a rather strange story.” he began, caution and consideration flickering through his blue eyes as they met hers. “I actually came to Paris for the first time ten years ago. You’ve proved an adept detective already, can you tell me why that was a mistake?” 

Christine considered the challenge. Ten years ago would have been 1871…“The war?” 

“Very good.” He began to walk slowly away from the piano, turning from her gaze again and making a slow, poised circuit of the room as he spoke. “I’d only been in the city for a few months before the Prussian army decided to join me. There was no way out of the city, bombs were falling everywhere and the citizens felt it their duty as Frenchmen to have another revolution. They declared the commune of Paris and suddenly anyone suspicious was being hauled off as a spy. I don’t…necessarily fit in, so I thought it would be better for my health and rather interesting to take a side.”

“You don’t do that very often, do you?” 

He gave a dim smirk over his shoulder. “I joined up with the communards, and they set up their main armory, in the Opera. The building was incomplete, and as you may have guessed, I have some skill as an architect and builder, so I helped them to, shall we say, fortify it.”

“I don’t understand…” Christine murmured and at last he turned to face her again, a glint of mystery in his eyes.

“Most people know they used the Opera as an armory,” Erik explained, taking a measured step towards her, which in turn made her stomach tighten. “What people don’t know is that the Opera was where they actually kept their prisoners and treasure. They wanted to hide things, make the place more dangerous in case of an attack, so I helped them build trap doors, false walls and hidden passages all through the building.” 

“So you that’s how you walk through walls? Trap doors and hidden passages?” Christine ventured, oddly disappointed by so simple an answer. 

“This place has an entire architecture that no one knows any more but me…and now you.” 

Erik indicated a large, framed cross-section of the Opera hanging above the fire. Christine looked at it closely; she had seen plans of the Opera before, since several hung throughout the theater, but this one was different. All sorts of additions had been drawn in, with small notes in a tight, angular hand. 

“The communards kept their prisoners in a chamber like this, across the lake,” Erik continued as Christine examined the map of his secrets. “But no one knew about this particular place but me. Unfortunately, I happened to have chosen the losing side in that conflict. The war ended and rebels fled the Opera, and Paris, and I left too. But the trap doors and other modifications were hidden well enough that when the workers returned, they didn’t know anything had changed.” 

“And you came back six years ago?” Christine finished for him as she looked away from the schematic and back to Erik. 

“Yes,” he confirmed, a shadow passing over his eyes as he turned from her again and drifted back towards the center of the room. “I was…in need of a somewhere to hide and I remembered this place. I took refuge here and I ended up staying. It’s perfect really: close to music, an entire other realm of illusion and magic between me and…everything else.” 

“And when did you decide to be a ghost?” 

He surprised her when he laughed, his thin shoulders shaking as he clasped his hands behind his back as the bubbling, wicked sound filed the room. 

“I don’t think you’ll believe me when I say that I became a ghost rather by accident.” 

Christine raised her eyebrows when he looked back at her. 

“Even with the passages, it is still difficult to be completely invisible. When I first took up residence, about six months before the official opening, I was seen more than once, and soon legends started to spread. I thought it would be amusing to see how far it could go, and being a ghost seemed as viable a career as any other for me.” 

Christine regarded him, taking in his clear relish at the tale as he stepped away from her, and moved towards the door. A memory flashed into her mind, of the time she and her father had seen a wolf in the woods. He had held her back but she had not been able to look away from the animal that had moved so smoothly and seemed to see her so clearly. 

“There are other people that know you’re…human though,” Christine ventured, taking a tentative step towards her host. 

Erik caught her eyes and gave a dark smile that assured her he knew who she was speaking of. She still could not understand why the man the Opera employees called the Persian had accosted her that very morning but she had several guesses.

“I do not think human is the world he would use for me,” Erik replied with a fierceness below the words that made Christine regretting moving so close. “But I’m not surprised you met the Daroga.” 

“Is that the Persian’s name?” 

“No, I’m sorry, that’s just what I’ve always called him,” Erik apologized and Christine suppressed a sigh of relief as he glided away, towards the great pipe organ. “His name is Shaya Motlagh, _Daroga_ was his title when I knew him in Persia, it means something in between detective and chief of police.”

“Is that what he is? A detective?” Christine pushed, swallowing as Erik turned back to her and gave her a long look.

“Of sorts…” 

“ _He_ found _me_ – earlier today. He wanted me to help him find you.” Christine blurted out and Erik’s eyes widened subtly behind the mask. “I didn’t tell him anything.”

“Thank you,” Erik replied softly. “But he told you I was dangerous, didn’t he?”

“Are you?” Christine asked back, trying not to let her voice shake. Again Erik gave her a lingering, thoughtful look that made her feel cold and lightheaded at the same time.

“Yes,” he whispered at last, looking down and away from her. “Are you frightened of me?” 

She stared at him and swallowed, remembering his awful face and rage and lies and still amazed by how much sadness his voice could hold.

“Yes.” 

He gave a resigned nod and turned away and Christine bit her lip. 

“So you have no other friends?” she asked, tripping over the words. 

“Not really,” Erik answered, with a sad, half smile. 

Christine found herself staring at him again. She was thankful that the mask left at least his mouth visible. His mouth wasn’t quite normal, she could tell that now; the shape and the sickly-pale color of the skin around it hinted vaguely at what was hidden and a few dim scars strayed from behind the white material. 

“Were you born…” She caught herself. 

Erik held her gaze with an expression both patient and rueful.

“In France?” he finished dryly and she looked away, blushing and biting her lip again. “Yes.”   
She looked back up at him in trepidation. 

“I’ve always looked…the way I do.” 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, though the words seemed rather useless against the suffering in his eyes.

“So am I,” he murmured back and turned from her again.

“Were you?” 

He looked back at her.

“Born in France, I mean? Erik is a northern name and I thought perhaps…”

“That I was one of your countrymen? No, I was born here; a small, primitive little village near Poitiers. My name came to me quite by accident.” 

Christine took a deep breath and tried to look away from him. He seemed to take her pause as apprehension and turned away from her again.

“Why do you keep doing that?” she burst out. He turned to face her, his eyes wide with surprise. “You keep…hiding. Are _you_ frightened of _me_?”

 

Erik stared at her as he groped for words. Since the moment she had stepped into his home again, he had felt a familiar sense of dread beyond the anxiousness of being so near to her again with no lies or mirrors to protect him. The fact she had been able to see his fear meant there was even less he could hide from her.

“I apologize,” he whispered carefully, fighting the powerful urge to turn away from the insistent pressure of her eyes. “It has been a long time since I’ve…”

“Had company?” 

He managed a crooked smile, even as his hands tensed while she watched him.

“I’ve become so used to seeing you without you seeing me, to have you, or…anyone really, actually looking at me it quite, shall we say, disconcerting.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to stare,” Christine apologized immediately, finally looking away as her cheeks reddened a bit.

“I can’t begrudge you that,” Erik said. “It’s just that…usually when people look at me, very rarely does it lead to a happy ending.” 

Christine winced. 

“I simply need to remind myself that you are not like other people.” 

She turned her face back to him and, for the first time since she had known who he was, she smiled. He held his breath in awe. It was not the luminous, secret smile he had sought and treasured for months – this was more knowing and cautious – but it was a beautiful expression none-the-less.

“Coming from you, I think that’s a compliment,” she muttered. 

He took a deep breath, pushing back the desire to retreat from her again.   
“I’ve been a terrible host, haven’t I?” he asked with a sigh as she tilted her head. “I think I was supposed to offer you a seat or tea or something to make feel at ease. I…have very little practice in a gentleman’s manners.”

Unexpectedly, Christine smiled again. “Well, we’re very well fucked then, because I have no practice at all in the manners of a lady.” 

Erik burst out laughing and was delighted when she joined. The laughter was brief, but when it was over, the fear in he eyes had dimmed considerably. 

“We’re both in new territory here, I think,” she ventured.

“That we are.” 

For a moment he let himself just look at the woman he loved, who had amazed him just by returning. She was wearing the threadbare, gray dress she had worn the first day he saw her, though now her hair was loose. She was cleaner than that day in the rain, and the quiet strength within her was easier to see. She shone in the dark like a lighthouse in a storm. 

“You still know these rules better than I,” he admitted, swallowing his pride. “Tell me what to do.” 

She examined him pensively and for the first time it did not make his skin crawl. “Show me more of your home.” 

Erik stepped back without looking away from her and swept his arm to indicate the house was hers to explore. She made her way towards his great pipe organ. 

“I can’t believe you built this alone…” 

“It took the longest of anything,” he told her as she tentatively touched a row of keys. “Getting the fireplace not to fill the place up with smoke took almost as long though, and the water…”

“You have running water down here?” she asked in clear astonishment as she turned back to him. 

“Of course, it’s even hot.” Watching her eyes grow wide in wonder was far more pleasant than the apprehension that had been there for most of the evening so far. 

She shook her head and looked back to the organ, this time focusing on the score lying open on the stand. “This is hand-written,” she murmured. “Is it a transcription? I don’t recognize it…”

“That is because no one has heard it.” 

“You wrote this?” she demanded with something like delight. 

Erik nodded and indicated the shelf of music to the right of the organ.

“Not just that.” 

Christine gasped. She touched a sheaf of loose music tenderly and Erik held his breath, remembering the similar tenderness of her touch on his skin as if from a dream. She looked back to him and again her cautious smile caught him off guard.

“Of course you’re a composer. That’s why I never could quite place the music you sang or played, it was yours.”

“Correct again.” 

Her gaze drifted away from his music and around the room. He could swear he saw a faint blush as her eyes lingered on the door to his chamber. Her eyes alit on the door closer to where they stood.

“What is in there?” 

Erik took up a candelabrum from beside the piano and moved to the door. He opened it smoothly and gestured for her to enter first. As they stepped in, he wondered what the room would look to her eyes. 

“This my…well I call it my study.” It wasn’t really a study of course; it was more like a workshop and a library pressed into one over-stuffed room. 

Books lined every inch of the walls, though their shelves were also crowded with discarded materials of abandoned projects and loose papers. A long table cluttered with mechanical objects and other diversions in various stages of completion or disassembly filled the center of the room. Christine’s brow knit in fascination as she made a slow circuit around the table. She trailed her fingers over papers covered with notes and designs, then towards a large contraption of wood and metal coils. 

“Be careful of that.” 

Christine’s eyes shot to him. 

“It a device for generating electrical current, and I can assure you that receiving a shock from it is terribly unpleasant.” 

Christine obediently withdrew her hand and turned her attention to the books. She ran her fingertips over the spines with a faint smile. She drew out a random volume and opened it. 

Erik laughed softly at the face she made when she looked at what likely seemed to her to be indecipherable gibberish. “It’s Sanskrit.”

“Sanskrit?” she echoed as she set the book aside.

“It’s one of the languages of India, that’s where the book is from.” 

“India,” Christine breathed the name like an incantation. “Have you been there?”

“Yes. It’s quite beautiful, though everything is different; the scents in the air, the music, even the light.”

“And you’ve been to Persia too?” 

Erik nodded in the affirmative, pushing away memories not half as pleasant. 

“How old are you?” She sounded surprised it had taken so long to ask such a simple question.

“Thirty-three,” Erik replied, wondering if it was close to what she might have guessed. He was ten years older than her, but in the scheme of obstacles between them, the age difference seemed rather insignificant.

“Where else have you traveled?” 

“Most of Europe, Russia, India, China, parts of Africa,” he answered with a shrug. There was astonishment in her face again. “I…left home very young and never stayed for longer than a few months in most places.”

“But you learned the languages?” 

“Most of them. There are a few that I can speak better than I can read. Chinese was rather frustrating…” he trailed off as he noticed that she was shaking her head.

“So you are a scholar and inventor and traveler as well as a composer and architect and artist…and ghost,” Christine recited. “Erik, I think I can say quite easily that you are the most accomplished ghost I’ve ever met.”

“Coming from you, I think that is a compliment.” 

She looked away shyly and Erik stood back from the door, signaling that she could leave. She gave him a cautious glance as she exited, which he tried to ignore. She moved across the room, looking curiously at the doors on the left wall. 

“What’s in that one?” she asked with a nod to the door to the right of the fire.  
“Just a storeroom,” he replied. “Even a ghost has to keep food and supplies on hand. I hope you’re not too disappointed.” He was relieved to see she seemed rather amused by his answer. 

He opened the door for her to look in the small room, thankful that there was nothing about the bare, innocuous walls to hint they concealed anything terrible or deadly. She surveyed the reams of paper, cases of candles and lamp oil, and crates of food, most of it preserved or dried and generally unimpressive. 

“Are you hungry?” 

Christine looked surprised and glanced at a small barrel of apples, but shook her head. “I’m a bit too nervous to eat.” 

Erik appreciated her honesty at least. He closed the door to the storeroom and replaced the candelabrum beside the organ. 

“Am I free to go – if I like?” Christine asked abruptly. 

Erik closed his eyes on a stab of pain at just the thought of watching her leave again.

“Of course…Though I had hoped that you would…” he could barely speak the words aloud. Without thinking he opened his eyes and found her staring once more. She was so beautiful, even with such fear and pity in her face. “Stay.”

“How long?” She was visibly trying to breathe more slowly, and her eyes were locked on him in a way that reminded him of a small animal staring down a circling predator.

“A few days,” he answered, trying to sound comforting and, judging by her expression, failing. He turned away from her automatically. “We can resume your lessons. I can tell you more, if you want to know it. Perhaps with more time here you could learn to…”

“Yes.” 

He spun to stare at her again. 

“Yes, I’ll stay.” Her face was still fearful, but her jaw was set in resolve. He let out a small breath. “Would you like me to sing now?” 

“Do you want to?” Erik asked doubtfully in return. 

Christine made a sour face and Erik let himself laugh softly, which seemed to comfort her. She stared at him, her brows knit and her mouth twitching as she searched for words.

“I want you to play for me; your music,” Christine requested, her voice small and beautiful.

“Don’t you have more questions?” She gave him a quizzical, sad smile.

“It’s so strange, it is as if I’ve just met you,” she mused as she gazed at him. “Yet…I feel like I’ve known you my entire life. And I think it is because I have heard your music. I could ask you a thousand questions, but I think, if I really want to know you – the way you want me to – who you are is in your music.”

“I taught you well,” Erik whispered. 

He made his way to the organ, peripherally aware of Christine seating herself in the brown damask chair by the fire. He settled himself before the instrument and to his surprise, hesitated. The sound of a thousand voices screaming for a good show and good scare rose in his memory and he felt even colder than usual.

“I’ll close my eyes, if you like,” Christine offered unexpectedly from behind him and the memories grew quieter. 

Erik nodded without looking at her and took a deep breath, then began to play. 

 

As the eerie tones of the organ filled the secret house, Christine listened with her eyes closed and felt as if she could breathe in the sound. Erik’s music was totally different from anything she had ever heard. She was sure there had to be something technically innovative about it, but it was the feeling that captured her. Her angel’s song had always been tinged with a beautiful sadness, but this melody ached with unanswerable loneliness. It made her shiver and forget that her waking eyes saw nothing. In her imagination, the world swam with the colors of the night: the black of the shadows, the glint of secret fire, the ocean blue of his eyes.

She heard his story in the music, a life of loneliness, the bitter, unending anticipation of hope and the striking cadence of that hope betrayed. Perhaps if he played long enough she would forget her fears entirely, she would be transported again as she had that first night. Perhaps he would sing to her again…even as she thought it, a melody she recognized rose in counterpoint. It was the melody he had sang to her on that night and it made her breath come faster and her skin come alive with shameful memory as it rose to a glorious crescendo. The moment of ecstasy was fleeting however, and the sound of loneliness and the song of the dark returned more strongly than before, as it seemed it always would.

Christine was not sure how long he played for her, but the silence was a shock. She took a deep breath, finding that her heart was racing and as she forced her eyes open. He was standing beside the organ and watching her, the same trepidation in his eyes as she was sure was in hers.

“You must be tired,” he stated, more regretful than polite. 

Christine glanced to the ornate clock on the mantle above the fire. Within the circle of numbers was a disc showing the sun, moon and stars as they rose and set, as useful tool for telling if it was night or day in a place daylight would never touch. The timepiece told her, shockingly, that it was already nine o’clock. 

“Oh, yes, I guess…” she stammered. 

“There is something else I’d like you to see,” Erik told her rather cautiously. Christine stood up perhaps a bit too quickly and braced herself, praying he could not see her tremble as he strode towards her. 

To her surprise he moved past her and to the door to left of the fireplace that had thus far evaded her prolonged attention. She followed him and held her breath as he caught her eyes with an unexpected look of hope and supplication.

“This is…yours.” He opened the door and let Christine step through. She was sure she saw him smile when she gasped. Instead of another dark, forbidding chamber, she found herself in a welcoming bedroom full of warm light. 

The room was obviously meant for a lady. Like Erik’s own room, the walls were hung with cloth, but here it was a soft peach color that caught the light from several oil lamps. The floor was covered in rich, thick rugs and in the center was a large bed with fine linens. The room also contained a dresser and wardrobe, an antique armchair, a dressing screen and a vanity (where, Christine remarked, the mirror was turned around). There were paintings on the walls as well, and a beautiful exotic statue of a woman in the corner, her hands pressed together as if in prayer. Like the rest of the house, the furniture was mismatched and old fashioned, and the strange objects and lack of windows certainly did not lend a sense of normality, yet she felt instantly at home.

“This is mine?” she whispered, remembering a morning months before when she had told an angel of her foolish dreams. She had wanted a place to call home, yet to never leave the Opera, with a library and a soft bed and a bath. A door to the left of the bed caught her attention and she rushed to it. She couldn’t stop herself laughing when she saw the comfortable bath chamber, complete with a beautiful claw-foot tub. 

“I’m glad you’re pleased,” Erik murmured as she glanced to where he stood in the door, not quite inside the room, watching her.

“Did you just have all this lying around?” 

“I worked on it while you were…gone.”

“You did all this in a day, knowing I would come back?” Christine pushed, shaking her head.

“A day and a half,” he corrected with a shrug as she looked to the oak wardrobe beside the door. “And I didn’t know you would come back, I just hoped,” he added almost inaudibly. 

Christine opened the doors of the wardrobe and gasped as a half-dozen dresses finer than anything she had ever owned were revealed. She covered her mouth in shock, realizing that all the drawers might be just as full. 

She didn’t know which frightened her more; that he had done this out of clear devotion to her or that these gifts might come with a price. She closed the door and looked at her hands.

“Thank you,” she whispered, finally finding the strength to look at him again only to be shocked by the tender look in his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before you asked me to stay?” She herself was not quite sure what had made her agree to remain.

“I guess I didn’t want to buy your trust,” Erik answered, again amazing her with how his voice could sound so dangerous while his eyes were so gentle. “I will leave you then,” Erik excused himself and Christine turned back to him, steadying herself on the sleigh frame of the bed. 

“Goodnight then.” It was not so much a pleasantry as a question. 

Christine held perfectly still as for the first time his eyes swept over her in such a way that it was impossible to pretend he had not known the secrets of her body. She wished dearly that she could hide from him as easily as he did from her, so he would not see her tremble or the blush rising in her cheeks. 

“Christine,” he began to question her slowly, holding her gaze. “May I ask where you thought you would be sleeping before you saw this room?” His tone was casual but curious. 

Christine took a deep breath, regarding him defiantly.

“No, you may not,” Christine replied Erik smirked, seeming more bemused than hurt, though the mask made it hard to tell. 

“Goodnight then,” he intoned softly as he gave her a small nod and closed the door. 

Christine sank to the bed the moment the door clicked shut, shaking and gasping for breath. She tried to just think of breathing, and not the sudden cacophony in her mind as she curled on to the soft, down mattress. 

The voices in her head demanding an explanation for what she was doing weren’t even hers anymore. She could hear Meg shrieking in horror that she would lock herself in a cellar with an infamous ghost. Adele was telling her to not be such a squeamish child. She heard the whole Opera whispering with accusations and rumor, Carlotta’s voice loudest among them. Even those could not drown out the Persian’s warnings. 

She shut her eyes tight and to her surprise, another face and voice she had encountered that morning swam into her memory. Raoul’s smile had not dimmed in seven years. His brown eyes had been even more earnest than when they were children and his face had grown more handsome with the years. What would the boy she had dreamed of in a forgotten life say if he knew where she was now? Would he understand? She didn’t want those answers, but it was comforting to remember someone whose life had not been full of horrors that made his eyes shine with sadness. Only a few nights ago, she had fallen asleep to a different dream, of an angel instead of a childhood hero. But there were no angels anymore. No more than there was hope for a hero.

 

Erik leaned against her doorframe and willing himself to move away. Why did she have to look at him like that? Why had he been so foolish as to ask her what she had expected when she came here? What in god’s name did he think he was doing? 

Erik let his head fall against the wall. The dull impact made the mask move against his face and he stumbled back from the door.

She had seen his face. She knew what he was and what had happened between them could never happen again. There had only been fear in her eyes, not desire, no matter how much he wanted to see it. 

Erik walked slowly to his room and closed the door behind him. It had been almost two days since he had slept ad his bed still lay unmade, neglected since she had left it. He absently pulled off his jacket and the stifling necktie and fell among the tousled sheets. He shut his eyes, praying for sleep and a few moments of freedom from the memory of her and the unrelenting desire to touch her again.

~

“Well, I’m glad that now our friends know I have _two_ useless brothers,” Sabine grumbled as the carriage rattled through the gate to the De Chagny estate. Raoul sank lower in his seat, avoiding her glare and glad Philippe’s laughter meant he did not have to respond.

“I would hardly say we are useless,” Philippe argued happily. “At least I made the old baron smile, that’s useful.”

“Well it is better than not talking _at all_ ,” Sabine agreed, giving Raoul a gentle kick in the shins. The young Vicomte jumped and looked between his siblings’ faces.

“I talked,” he protested. Philippe scoffed as the carriage ground to a stop and a footman rushed to open the door.

“‘Pass the butter, please,’ is not talking, little brother,” Sabine chided as she cast Raoul another disapproving look while she was helped out of the carriage. 

“What was I supposed to do, propose to that girl before dessert?” Raoul demanded, scrambling into the February night after his sister.

“Don’t be silly, proposals come after dessert and before brandy,” Philippe quipped and Raoul scowled. 

“Are you two honestly surprised I wasn’t leaping to court her? Ever since I came home from the navy I have been paraded abut Paris like a prize horse before auction.” 

“Oh don’t be such a petulant child, Raoul. At least this one was pretty,” Philippe laughed as another footman opened the door for the trio to enter. “Just because she’s not soprano who can disappear into thin air, doesn’t mean she’s not worth your time.”

“And _she_ remembered your name,” Sabine added smugly as the butler took her coat.

“I’ll have you know Christine remembers me perfectly,” Raoul snapped back, his cheeks growing warm. “I saw her this very morning and she was very glad to see me.” Sabine’s dark eyebrows rose high and Raoul instantly regretted the confession.

“Really? Where on earth did you find her?” Philippe asked, since Sabine seemed too shocked to form a sentence. 

Raoul struggled out of his coat, tripping as the footman tried to assist him.

“I went to her house, well, it’s not a house; I think she lets a room on the rue…”

“Raoul, are you insane? Decent people might have seen you!” Sabine gaped and the servants cowered a bit.

“I only wanted to see if she was alright…” Raoul lied weakly. He had wanted to make sure she was safe, after her disappearance following her debut, but more than that he had simply wanted to see the girl he had loved since childhood again.

“And is she?” Philippe inquired as a steward presented him with a glass of brandy.

“She…she seemed upset. I was not able to speak with her in great detail,” Raoul answered. “I’m certain there is more going on.”

“All the better reason to forget her,” Sabine shot, spinning angrily to make her way up the great curved staircase. Philippe gave him another pitying clap on the shoulder as he downed his brandy and followed Sabine upstairs. 

Raoul sighed, wishing he could employ one of the servants to tell him when to stop talking. He wandered through the parlor and towards the door that lead out onto the gardens.

“Sir, anything I can help you with?” a footman offered from behind him.

“No, thank you, Gaston, I just…need some time to think,” Raoul muttered, starring out at the dark sky through the glass. 

“Very well, sir,” the man bowed and disappeared. 

The bright warm light of the parlor and fire reminded Raoul of the brilliance of the footlights and glittering chandelier at the Opera. Had it only been two nights ago that he had nearly fallen out of his seat next to Philippe to see Christine appear as Marguerite beneath those lights? She had shone brighter than all of them in his estimation. None of the noble daughters Sabine had been flinging at him were half as lovely or entrancing as her. Then again, none of them made him worry about shadows as much as Christine did either. 

It was a silly thing, really, but there was something strange about the Opera itself. The cramped, dark halls were as great a contrast to the stage as the dark, wintry garden outside was to the warm, civilized glow of the parlor. The light itself seemed to make the shadows all the more frightening.

~

Christine closed her eyes and lay absolutely still in her new bed, forcing herself to catalogue the sensations and textures: the yielding comfort of the down mattress, the warm, soft caress of the white linen dressing gown against her skin, the scent of candles and a faint perfume of roses, the still silence of the shadows, pierced only by the sound of her breath and his. She kept her eyes closed, even knowing that doing so would make the prickling sensation of his eyes watching her all the more intense. With her eyes closed he was still only a shadow, a memory that could not harm her. But this shadow could touch her, she thought, as she felt soft coldness against her skin, trailing down her neck.

She released a shaking sigh, almost relieved that her fear had proved correct. She didn’t struggle or move as he pushed away the cloth covering her breast, exposing her tingling skin to the chilling subterranean air. It was different in the silence, though the touch seemed to make music ring in her ears. She felt the weight of him upon her, with her, between the sheets, and heard him whisper her name, an entreaty and a command all at once. His hands sought her as he prized her legs apart and she heard herself sigh wantonly, far away. It was only when she felt him push into her that she opened her eyes. He covered her mouth as she screamed at the sight of his face.

Christine’s sprang up from the bed, her eyes truly open now as she gasped for breath. She was trembling as she scrambled out of the sheets, still reeling from the intensity of the dream. She was safe and alone in her room and her door was still closed securely. Her body was still aching shamefully for the imagined touch, which made her horror at the memory of his face all the more acute. 

Christine shook her head and left the bed. Maybe a book would help. She found a splendid robe of red velvet among the clothes he had provided. The sleeves trailed almost to the floor and it buttoned at the waist. Perhaps it had been a costume once, she mused as she opened the door of her room. 

Christine jumped and gave a cry that made Erik spring up from the chair he occupied by the fire, looking just as shocked as she was. She gripped the edge of a shelf by the door with one hand and clasped the collar of her robe closed with the other as Erik stared as her, his eyes wide and his whole body tense. 

“I’m sorry,” Christine exclaimed unable to tear her eyes from him. 

He looked quite different than earlier. A few buttons of his white shirt, now a bit wrinkled, were undone and his jacket and vest were discarded. His hair was a bit more unruly and a few locks hung in his face.

“I’m used to it,” he breathed, swallowing.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Christine declared, praying he could not read the dreams in her eyes. 

“Nor could I,” Erik replied quickly, giving a quick glance to the book he had dropped. 

Christine gulped and felt her blood begin to calm. 

“May I join you?” 

He looked at her as if she had spoken another language, cocking his head so that a lock of hair fell in his eyes. 

“Yes, of course,” he stuttered, gesturing to the empty couch. He did not take his eyes off her as he retrieved him book and she settled herself on to the well-used cushion, leaning on the arm closest to his seat, only a foot from him. She was keenly aware of their proximity as he stiffly retook his own seat.

“It’s not that I’m not tired,” she told him, unprompted. “It’s just I hate…” 

“Those moments before you fall asleep,” Erik finished for her and Christine nodded, watching him watch her as he spoke. “Those moments when there is nowhere to hide from your thoughts or memories; the hurt of the day before or the fear of the day to come.” 

Christine smiled sadly, not surprised that he could draw the very thoughts from her mind and enjoying the dark, comforting sound of his voice.

“What are you reading?” she asked softly, nodding at the worn book in his hands.

“Shakespeare, Othello.” Christine cocked her head in interest.

“In English?” 

“It has to be,” he explained with a nod. “There’s a good reason the English have no decent composers. Music speaks that which simple words cannot express, but the English have so many words, such language, they have this and it is as beautiful as any music.” 

“Will you read it to me?” Christine asked and Erik gave her another doubtful look. “I came out to find a book to read, but yours sounds better.”

“You don’t speak English,” he stated suspiciously.

“Then teach me,” Christine replied with only a hint of a challenge in her voice. “Neither of us will be sleeping soon, we have time. And I know you’re a good teacher.”

“You already knew how to sing,” he argued without much conviction.

“I already know how to speak too,” she shot back petulantly. 

“I give up then,” he surrendered and Christine smiled. “Why don’t we start with a poem before we get to the plays?”

 

Erik knew she was gone before he opened his eyes, almost the same way he would know when the sun had set without even looking at the sky. The warmth had left the room and he could no longer make out the subtle sound of her breathing. 

He opened his eyes and set the book they ad fallen asleep reading aside: _The Count of Monte Cristo_. They had both read it before, but it had been an easy choice after several sonnets and the first act of _Love’s Labors Lost_. 

He did not want to go back to his own bed, since it was useless to try to sleep again now. He made the short journey anyway, glancing at her closed door once more. He had wanted her in his world. He had asked for this. Moments like the ones before the fire, teaching her and reading to her and were the prizes he had dreamed of; but moments like this or when he woke from dreams of her screams or smarted from the look of fear in her eyes, they were the punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorite chapters, hope you enjoy it!


	3. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine and Erik share lessons in music and haunting, among other things.

Shaya let out a sigh that turned to a cloud of steam in the frozen morning air. He had no idea why he was making the trek from his modest flat on the Rue De Rivoli back to the Rue de Notre Dame des Victoires and the red door he had seen Christine Daaé leave. He had been shocked to see her alive and in one piece, but not by her refusal to lead him to Erik. He was far too familiar with Erik’s ability to manipulate fear or the strange control the ghost seemed to have over others. Yet the girl had not seemed frightened, at least not in the usual way.

Shaya wondered if there was any use in trying to speak with the girl again, as he waited in the empty street, but his instincts had been screaming at him for an entire day and night that there was something he had missed or something he needed to know from her. Perhaps if he could explain better _who_ Erik was – what he had done, how much he had destroyed, what the monster looked like for heaven’s sake – that might earn her trust. The girl could not possibly have seen Erik. If she had, she would have not protected him.

At last Shaya grew too cold to wait any longer and crossed the street from his watch post to knock on the boarding house door. After an interminable wait, a red-faced old woman with bleary eyes opened the door. She said nothing, instead she only hiccoughed as she waited for Shaya to speak.

“I wish to speak to Mademoiselle Daaé,” Shaya told the matron politely. To Shaya’s shock the woman responded with laughter. The stale scent of wine on her breath and the fact that he could count the many missing teeth in her mouth as she guffawed made the response all the more unpleasant.

“Everyone wants to see little Christine suddenly!” the woman crowed at last. “And I have to tell you all, she’s not here! Bloody girl never is!”

“Not here?” Shaya parroted in alarm.

“’Course not, not too much of a surprise with this lot though,” the woman continued to laugh. “ _Artists_ , they are, great artists!” Shaya ignored the brittle sound of her laughter receding as he rushed back down the street. No matter how fast he moved he could not stem the cold inside him, or the knowledge that Christine Daaé had again disappeared where he could not follow.

~

Christine stared at the door of her bath chamber, telling herself to stop thinking about the fact that an entire day in the house on the lake, alone with her strange teacher, loomed before her. Or that Erik would have heard the water and would know she was enjoying his gift, utterly bare and vulnerable. Or the gooseflesh covering her skin, even though the water was deliciously hot and welcoming. Or that none of the doors in this house seemed to have locks. Not that locks would matter to man who could walk through walls.

 

Christine rose from the water at last and drew a towel around her body, shivering involuntarily again. She drifted through her room, taking more time to examine the art and objects he had chosen for her. There was a painting of waves in a strange style she had never seen, with writing above it that looked more like small drawings than letters. The colors reminded her of his eyes. She turned to the statute in the corner. It was at least three feet tall and made of bronze, and was like nothing she had ever seen. The woman wore strange, long robes and an even stranger crown that came to a dangerous point. Her eyes stared kindly at Christine over clasped hands. She had a knowing smile that seemed to echo of the knowledge that, somehow, everything would be alright. In the lonely silence of her room, Christine doubted that.

Dryer now, Christine turned to the wardrobe, her body tensing at the proximity to the door. She selected a moss green dress from the sumptuous collection Erik had provided. It was paneled in taffeta and velvet and though it was not tailored, it fit her very well. The square neckline, edged in cream-colored lace, would make her neck look quite long she guessed though she did not turn around the vanity mirror to check. She did not want to see her reflection either and face the fear and confusion in her eyes. 

She brushed her damp hair carefully, staring at the door again and humming softly. She fixed her hair in a loose bun and she took a deep breath. The music continued and Christine smiled, wondering why it had taken her so long to notice. Perhaps she just expected the very air to sing here. She rose from the vanity, listening to the plaintive sound of Erik’s. The music made it so much easier to open the door, if just to hear him better. 

His eyes were closed, Christine remarked absently as she regarded him from beside the fire, the way her father’s always had been. There was very little else about the way Erik played and moved that was like her father however, except that both were masters of the instrument. Where her father had been stoic and rigid, disciplined by years in the symphonies of the continent, Erik was fluid and dynamic and played with his entire, long body. It was like a dance, where the instrument was his partner. 

She watched his fingers fly over the strings as his bow swept across them until last his eyes opened slightly and he caught sight of her. The bow scratched terribly across the string as the music screeched to a halt and her staggered back, clearly shocked to see her.

“I’m sorry!” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to…” She had no idea what she hadn’t meant to do or even what she had done. He was staring at her like he had never seen her before and her skin was suddenly very warm. “Good morning.” 

He shook himself and blinked. “Good morning,” he replied and she finally let out the breath she had been holding in.

“Did you…” her words still seemed to be moving from her brain to her mouth at the speed of molasses on a cold morning. “Did you sleep better?”

“No.” He cringed the moment he said it. “I don’t sleep very much anyway,” he amended with what she guessed was his best attempt at politeness. He looked down at the instrument and bow still in his hands and set them down hastily. “You?” 

Christine blinked, trying to understand and ignore that he was staring at her again. 

“Did you sleep better?”

“Oh, yes, a bit.” It had taken a while to fall back asleep after stealing back to her room. The sight of him asleep in his chair, as vulnerable as any normal person had been hard to shake.

“You look lovely,” he told her abruptly and winced. She looked away, blushing again. Erik himself was dressed entirely in black again, and his trousers, waistcoat and shirt all looked to be expensively made. The dark color made his visible skin seem even paler.

“I am hungry now though,” she suggested.

“Of course,” he muttered moving towards her carefully, avoiding her eyes. “I hope you don’t mind fish. It you would like a fresh one it may take a while – I would have to go get the boat.” He caught Christine’s bewildered gaze, the faintest smile on his lips at the edge of the mask. 

She gave a small, tentative laugh and his smile broadened. He laughed as well and it made his eyes shine in a way she had not noticed before.

“Are there really fish in your lake?” she asked as Erik ducked into the storeroom. He emerged quickly holding an apple and what looked like the makings of tea.

“Yes, actually,” he answered with a faint smile. “They’re really not half bad,” he added with a small wink. 

Christine shook her head as he handed her the apple and hung a kettle on a hook above the fire.

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” she pried cautiously as he stood to let the water boil.

“I ate earlier, I apologize,” he excused himself as they both took seats in the two chairs by the fire. “I don’t eat a great deal either.” 

Christine looked down at the apple in her hand, trying not to stare at him and think of how terribly thin he was.

“They’re good for your voice,” Erik prompted gently. Christine glanced at him, blushing slightly, and bit into the crisp fruit. 

“How do you eat though?” Christine asked after she swallowed. 

Erik cocked his head.“I imagine the same way everyone else does.” 

Christine closed her eyes as she searched for less ridiculous words.

“I mean, where do you get apples…or anything? How does a ghost buy candles and paper and ink and women’s clothes?” 

“Oh, yes,” Erik remarked as Christine bit her lip. “I don’t buy food and…such myself. I have an agent, shall we say, up in the world of the living.” 

Christine’s eyes widened again as she took another bite. 

“His name is Rabindra. I met him eight years ago, in India, Punjab to be precise. I was traveling and saw a band being attacked on the road. I…intervened.” 

“I thought you didn’t take sides?” 

Erik shot her a sharp glance and Christine raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t. I just don’t like seeing weak at the mercy of the powerful,” he defended himself brusquely. “I wasn’t able to save all of them. Rabindra’s master was killed. You see, India is even worse than France, their society is built around unquestionable classes, and Rabindra was born into the very lowest. They’re called untouchables, their whole lot in life is to do the work no one else wants to do; to live as worthless slaves.” Erik practically spat out the words, his disgust visible.

“That’s terrible…” 

“All he knew to do was serve; so with his master gone and a debt to me he became my…” Erik sneered. “I don’t like to think of him a servant. I hate the idea that I, of all people, am above him somehow. He just helps me with necessities and other errands and I provide him with money to live well enough, though he doesn’t like taking it.” 

Christine studied Erik as she took another bite of the apple and the water began to boil. 

“Why didn’t he just leave? His master was dead; wasn’t he free?”

“In India they believe that you must live the life you are born to: it is your destiny, even if it is to be in the lowest of castes. If you follow that path, in you next life, things will be better.”

“Next life? And if you don’t follow, the next life will be worse?” 

Erik nodded. 

“Do you believe that?” She wondered if he was furrowing his brows behind the mask as he stared at the fire.

“It would be comforting to believe that the curses we face in this life are because of some crime the last, rather than just the whims of cruel god,” he answered, looking down at his thin hands. He drew his fingers into fists and turned his attention to the boiling kettle.

“He would never reveal you?”

“No. And he very rarely asks questions, though he did find my latest job for him rather interesting.” Erik rose and moved to take the kettle from the fire, as another hint of mischief flashed in his eyes.

“That statue, in my room, is she from India too?” Christine asked, watching Erik prepare their tea, unable to take her eyes away from him.

“No, China, good guess though,” Erik answered kindly as he presented her with a steaming cup. 

“Who is she?” Christine asked before she took a sip, noting that it was English tea, with bergamot and that the china was beautiful but did not match.

“She’s a goddess, her name is Kuan Yin.” The foreign word was exotic music on his lips.

“A goddess of what?” Christine watched him take a sip before answering, rather glad to see him do something so human. 

“Wisdom and compassion.” Christine felt a spasm of guilt at the ripple of sadness in Erik’s eyes and voice. 

“Tell me more about India,” Christine entreated, finally looking away from him and taking another scalding gulp of tea. She could feel him watching her before he began to speak again.

“It was strange to see a place so crowded and so strange, yet to see British faces looking down from their carriage everywhere, like I’d never left the continent…” Christine sat back and listened, the heat of the tea through the china pleasant against her palms, the warmth creeping beneath her skin with the sound of his voice.

 

Meg gave the new toe shoe a particularly furious thwack against the worn floor of the ballet studio. She scowled as the stiff material still refused to yield and struck again.

“For God’s sake, Giry, are you trying to kill someone?” Jammes snapped from her place on the floor a few feet away, leaning against the wall beneath the barre and scratching at her own slippers with a small, rough rock.

“Still sad your friend has no use for you now she’s a diva?” Charlotte drawled, as Meg pursed her lips and gave another blow to the floor.

“Daaé is not a diva,” Jammes argued, sending Charlotte a glare. “She’s a glorified understudy. And she’ll be lucky if she’s even allowed in the building when Carlotta comes back.”

“What has Christine done to you?” Meg snapped, astonished by Jammes’ venom. Jammes sneered at her as Charlotte rose to stretch.

“Jealous of that mysterious lover she disappeared with?” Charlotte giggled. Jammes remained silent as she pulled on a toe shoe and began to wrap the satin laces around her ankles.

“Christine isn’t like that,” Meg corrected a bit too slowly. “And Carlotta won’t be able to keep her put, if she ever comes back.”

“You sound very certain.” 

Meg looked up at the smooth voice. Christine’s dresser, Julianne was staring down Meg and Jammes, a brown shawl about her shoulders and her usual knowing smirk on her face. Meg was not surprised to see her, the girl often visited the dance rehearsal the same way Christine had often done.

“You can tell them, can’t you?” Meg demanded, rushing to lace up he own shoes. “You must have seen her before she left that night?” 

Julianne’s expression faltered for an instant. “The last time I saw her was the same as you, when she rushed us and that Vicomte out of her dressing room,” Julianne shrugged, her face once again implacable.

“You certainly were worried about her,” Jammes interjected, standing abruptly. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to tell you where she was if she ever comes back.” She spun and left Meg and Julianne staring after her as she moved to join the other dancers. 

“But she’s not gone anywhere with a lover, I saw her on Sunday…” Meg whimpered.

“You saw her?” Julianne echoed and Meg nodded. 

“She was…upset though,” she added with a frown. “She looked like she had been crying like someone had died. And she said not to ask where she had been.” 

Julianne furrowed her brow as she helped Meg up from the floor. 

“Perhaps she just slept at the Opera, she does that…” Julianne muttered. Meg sighed, she had no idea where Christine had been, only that she had not been told and that everyone else wanted to know. 

“I know Christine is…mysterious sometimes, but I’ve never known her to keep things from me,” Meg lamented aloud.

“She has secrets the same as all of us, Meg,” Julianne consoled, glancing towards Jammes and the other petit rats. “Maybe more than the rest of us.” 

Meg shivered, not just at the tone of Julianne’s voice but at the memory of the a shadow, following her friend that only she had seen.

 

“Are you ready to sing?” Erik suggested nervously, hours after their tea had grown cold. As much as he enjoyed just talking with Christine, which was becoming slightly easier, there was no more putting off the moment 

“I’m not sure,” she replied, worry washing over her beautiful face. It was somewhat heartening that she did not try to lie or placate him. He rose from his place by the fire, striding to the piano, and felt her follow him timidly.

“You don’t think you’ll be able to sing without an angel,” he stated as he opened the lid of the instrument, glad of the distraction. “Even though you remember all the technique, even all of Paris applauded you, and all of that despite the fact I was mortal, you are afraid you cannot sing unless you have something more to believe in.” 

Unable to postpone it any longer he turned to look at her. Her eyes were closed and to his shock, she shook her head slowly in the negative.

“No,” she whispered and Erik found himself holding his breath as she spoke, her voice small and choked. “I met a priest yesterday. I told him about what my father promised me. He – he suggested that, perhaps, the promise wasn’t broken…” 

The words sent a jolt through Erik like an electric shock. He stared at her thunderstruck as she opened her eyes and looked at him, doubt and hope battling in her expression. 

“That promise did lead me to an angel, though not the one I expected. I came back to you to find out…if there was still something to believe.” Erik saw her take a long, shaking breath. She still wanted him to be an angel, when he had never thought he could earn such faith from her again.

“And when you sing, you’ll know if you can believe,” Erik muttered, wondering which of them was more worried.

“I want to,” she protested unconvincingly. “But I’m frightened of what it will mean if I do; if I give you my faith again, my voice, I’m afraid…” she bit her lip and suppressed a shudder.

“Of trusting me,” Erik finished for her, his voice soft and sad as she nodded. She was wise to fear that. 

To give him her voice and her trust again was to give hope to the horrible creature that and adored her. Erik regarded her, noting how she was watching him with both fear and anticipation in her eyes, every muscle in her body tense. 

“Help me trust you, Erik,” she pled. He nodded, his mind racing while he struggled to keep his body still and calm, so as not to alarm her any further.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered and watched her hesitate, clearly remembering the last time he had given such a command in this room. He prayed, to whatever hope or madness inside of her that had brought her back to him that she would trust him now. “Please,” he implored. 

A familiar look of determined bravery overtook her face. Slowly, she closed her eyes. Without a sound he took his seat at the piano. It would be so easy to touch her, and he had the strange impression she expected him to, though the thought obviously frightened her. He wondered if she would be consoled that what he was about to do terrified him as well.

“Breathe, Christine,” he commanded and watched her take a slow, deep breath. “Relax and breathe.” She flinched when he began to play, not a scale or a warm up, but a plaintive melody from _Faust _. It was the prison scene, where the devil had guided Faust to find Marguerite awaiting execution.__

__“ _My heart is penetrated by dread_ …” Erik began to sing and Christine’s breath caught her breath. It was the first time he had sung to her since she had seen him. Her eyes were closed, perhaps she could hear and imagine an angel again. _ _

__He watched as a change came over her as Gounod’s music of despair filled the house. His soul called out to her beneath the words and notes, begging her to believe in the music._ _

__“ _Marguerite, Marguerite_ …” Faust called. The moment had come for Christine to sing. He watched her hesitate, felt her fear as he had felt it before she stepped with him into the dark. “Breathe, Christine…sing for me.”_ _

__“ _Ah, it is the voice of my beloved_ …” her voice rose, tremulous but clear, and utterly, astonishingly beautiful. He could hear her faith reviving with each note. “ _At his call, my heart returns to life._ ”_ _

__“ _Marguerite_ ,” he called in Faust’s voice, encouraging her as her song rose. more confident and powerful with each note. _ _

__She kept her eyes closed tight as she continued to sing but the music moved her entire body. Marguerite sang in ecstasy, free from the demons that had tormented her and sure that her love had come to set her free at last._ _

__“ _Yes, it is I, I love you_ ,” Erik sang as Christine echoed Marguerite’s love in turn. _ _

__Their voices joined together at last, each urging the other on, amazed and transported. Erik did not look at the keys as he played; all he could see was his angel singing for him in the dark once more. It did not matter that the feeling was not real, the music was._ _

__Faust begged her to flee, but she would not come, trapped in her memories, madness and faith. The duet came to a sudden halt, as the devil entered, his part taken only by the piano. The music darkened and but Marguerite fought back the demons with her song._ _

__“ _Angels pure, angels radiant, carry my soul to heaven_ ,” Christine’s voice was sublime as she launched in to Marguerite’s rapturous song to heaven as Faust implored her to fly. There was nothing Erik could do to keep her on earth and he had no desire to. _ _

__Christine sang to the angels, her phrase more ecstatic and triumphant with each note. Erik’s eyes closed, as the crescendo rose and Marguerite broke free at last of the devil’s grasp. Erik continued to play, their parts done, as the music of salvation swept up Marguerite’s soul. The piano resounded under his hands as thunderous as the orchestra and choirs of heaven, as the final climax rose then subsided into a gentle cadence of forgiveness. Christine’s eyes opened slowly as the music echoed in the dark._ _

__

__Christine could barely catch her breath; the music had been so astonishing. She had once again been swept to heaven in the embrace of her angel’s voice, yet everything was different. Even singing on stage with Carlos Fontana she had never felt such a connection to another voice, never felt the music take her so completely. Only one other time is her life had she felt so completely overcome and yet utterly free. Erik had sung to her then as well, at least in the beginning. She cast her eyes down and away from his._ _

__“Do you believe now?” he asked her quietly, though she knew he did not have to. He had heard it in her voice already. She nodded quickly, her heartbeat finally beginning to slow._ _

__“What shall we sing next?” she asked and drew a smile from his pale lips. There was something dangerous in his eyes, something hungry and proud, but it passed quickly as he looked away._ _

__“Perhaps Mozart, once you’ve earned it,” he replied in a tone that was not truly stern. “But before we sing, we breathe.”_ _

__They fell into the old rhythm of their lessons automatically, and time began to fly in a rush of music and breath. He had her sing Mozart, _Dove Sono_ from _Figaro_ , before they returned to _Faust_. When her teacher was satisfied with that, they began to address her upcoming _Rigoletto_. At least two hours had passed by the time Erik carefully closed the lid on the piano._ _

__“You must rest your voice, for a while,” he cut off her protest before she could even open her mouth._ _

__Christine sighed rather than argue, consoled by the regret in his voice. She watched him rise from the piano, reminded again of his height and the peculiar, graceful way he moved._ _

__“Perhaps something new tomorrow?” she suggested rather weakly. “ _Don Giovanni_ rather than _Figaro_ to start?” He gave her a doubtful look, perhaps a bit bemused that she would be bold enough to suggest music of seduction and damnation._ _

__“Perhaps.” Something clouded his expression and he turned to the shelf of scores by the organ._ _

__He raised his hand to touch a huge score bound in red leather and something about the gesture and his manner made Christine feel suddenly cold. Christine moved unsurely to join him beside the instrument._ _

__“What is that?” He looked at her and seemed alarmed to see her so close. There was darkness in his eyes that made Christine regret straying so near, yet she could not move away._ _

__“It’s an opera. _Don Juan Triumphant_ ,” he replied at last, his voice barely more than a whisper as he spoke the name. It made a chill go down her spine. _ _

__“Don Juan?” she echoed unsurely. “Rewriting something after Mozart, something everyone knows. That’s quite brave.”_ _

__“Or mad,” Erik countered despondently. “It’s…rather different than other attempts.” He gave a small shudder. “It’s not finished, and it never will be if I’m lucky,” he amended, turning from her abruptly, his voice and mood returning to normal, or at least what could be called normal for him. “We’ll stay with Mozart’s, it’s much safer.”_ _

__Christine did not want to ask how music could be safe or dangerous, with Erik she already knew it was possible._ _

__She looked around the room for some other topic of conversation, her eyes alighting first on the blueprint of the Opera above the fire then turning to what looked like a map of Paris on the wall opposite, though it was drawn over with symbols and lines in different colors of ink showing roads and streets she had never seen. Neither had glass in their frames, giving Christine the impression they were works in progress._ _

__“What is this?” Christine asked curiously, drifting towards the map of the city._ _

__“That’s the map of my Paris, the one beneath the streets that most people don’t see,” Erik explained, coming to stand beside her but keeping a careful distance between them. “There is an entire world under the city, tunnels, catacombs, hidden places like the lake, and it’s all connected,” Erik indicated the various paths with a long hand and Christine began to understand the map in astonishment. “That’s how I can move about, if I like. I can hear music wherever I want, find Rabindra, run errands, all without going above ground.”_ _

__“It sounds dark,” Christine commented, imagining a life spent in darkness that went on for miles._ _

__“One becomes accustomed to it,” Erik shrugged. She looked away from the map and to the man in black beside her. How long before she became accustomed to the dark?_ _

__“How do you afford all these errands?” Christine demanded, pushing away the thought and looking down at her own expensive dress. “I’ve heard that silly story about the ghost being paid by the managers, but how do you really get money?” She looked back up at Erik and found him smiling roguishly. “Erik, that story isn’t true is it?” she pushed, completely aghast as he began to laugh. “Meg said they paid you ten thousand francs!”_ _

__“Well of course _that_ isn’t true.” _ _

__Christine sighed in relief._ _

__“I get twenty thousand.”_ _

__Her gasp of absolute shock made him laugh even harder._ _

__“They pay you _twenty thousand_ francs a month!” she cried incredulously, both appalled and fighting back the urge to laugh with him. “That’s insane!”_ _

__“What? You don’t think I should be compensated for all the work I do here?” he argued sardonically and Christine scowled._ _

__“Compensated? For lurking behind walls and scaring ballet rats?”_ _

__“Now don’t be unfair, sometimes I also have to frighten seamstresses that don’t believe in ghosts,” he chuckled._ _

__“Well you didn’t succeed at that,” she countered quickly and Erik seemed pleasantly taken aback by it._ _

__“Despite such failings, being a ghost is quite demanding,” he defended himself with a sly smile. Christine raised an eyebrow. “I watch over the company and the musicians, and make sure they meet the high standards of the National Academy of Music – no manager could do that the way I do. I send them suggestions as to the music and productions,” Erik explained with wry satisfaction as he absently lifted a quill from beside the music stand on his piano. “And if I need to, I will make those that fail to satisfy me disappear.”_ _

__Christine gasped as the quill vanished with a flourish of Erik’s hand._ _

__“Just as I can reward those who please me.” With another flourish the quill was in his other hand._ _

__Christine shook her head in wonder._ _

__“So, there is more to being a ghost than trap doors,” Christine murmured, adding magician to Erik’s long list of remarkable skills._ _

__“Much more.” The sound of Erik’s voice made her jump in surprise, since he had not opened his mouth at all and the sound seemed to come from _behind_ her. “I’m quite sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Christine turned her head foolishly, his voice now sounding as if it was far across the room. “Don’t be alarmed, it’s only magic.” These words sounded as if they came from Christine’s own gaping mouth._ _

__“How did you do that?” she stammered in wonder. He laughed gently, thankfully opening his mouth again._ _

__“Ventriloquism,” he answered. “A very useful trick when haunting.” Christine smiled despite herself, wondering if there was anything Erik did not know how to do._ _

__“I still think twenty thousand francs is a bit much, even for such a skilled ghost,” she argued sourly. “If you take in that much every month, it means you’ve…” even just doing the sum in her mind made her head spin. “God, that’s more money than I’ll see in my life…”_ _

__“I don’t keep it all,” Erik protested, raising his hands in mock defense. “And the twenty thousand was just the most I was ever able to get out of them, and it was only once or twice. I put some of it back and watch them try and fix the books, some I save.”_ _

__Christine glowered at him doubtfully._ _

__“Would you rather I’d donated it to the poor?”_ _

__“What if I say yes?” she challenged him and his eyes widened a bit behind the mask._ _

__“I could never refuse an order from you,” he acquiesced, bowing his head slightly. He held her gaze and she felt herself beginning to blush._ _

__Christine looked away with a nervous laugh._ _

__“You say you ask for a salary and send the management, what was it, ‘suggestions?’” she ventured, moving away from him toward the fire. “How can they still believe you’re a real ghost? Are the managers that foolish or are you just that convincing?” Christine turned as she asked this and was surprised at how close Erik had followed behind her._ _

__“Well, Debienne and Poligny were idiots of the highest rate, if that’s what you are asking, though I must take some credit,” he answered, both thoughtful and proud. “I don’t know about our new captains yet.” His voice faded and Christine held her breath as a thought passed through his shaded eyes. “I actually need to check on them,” he muttered, glancing to the door then back to Christine._ _

__“Check on them?” Christine parroted, suddenly confronted with terrifying the prospect of Erik leaving her alone in his strange house._ _

__“Would you like to come?” Erik asked softly, his voice full of unexpected trepidation. Christine stared at him with surprise he seemed to mistake for hesitation. “Above that is. It will be dark, but I can show you…”_ _

__“Yes,” she answered quickly, trying not to let her voice shake. It was as simple as when he had asked her to stay._ _

__He nodded silently and moved towards the door, retrieving the dark cloak he had given her from its hook first and handing it to her. Christine tried not to fumble with the clasp too much as he donned his own hat and cloak. She caught her breath when she looked back at him, once again confronted with the infamous silhouette of the Phantom. The sense of otherworldly menace that radiated from him made her heart beat a bit faster._ _

__He opened the door and let her pass through first, out to the lake. Christine was in utter darkness before Erik struck a match to light the lamp beside them and a second one the prow of the boat that waited in the black water. He offered his hand to help her in. Christine hesitated, looking at his hand, thin and pale as bone in the dark. It would be the first time that day he had touched her._ _

__“You are trusting me with a great deal of your secrets, Erik,” she murmured as she took the offered hand, once again shocked by how cold it was and the peculiar texture of his skin. She looked into his eyes and was amazed again by how they seemed to shine in the dark, rather like a cat’s. He seemed at a loss for words. Perhaps it was because she had called the ghost by a man’s name, or perhaps because he was just as overcome by another touch in the dark as she was. “Are you no longer frightened that I’ll reveal you?”_ _

__“Whether wisely or not, I trust you,” he confessed, his angel’s voice gentle and sad. He helped her in to the boat, never looking away from her as he took his place in the back._ _

__“You can,” Christine reassured him softly and she settled into her seat in the prow._ _

__Erik cocked his head and his eyes glittered behind the mask, unreadable, though he seemed to smile faintly._ _

__“And anyway, even if I decided to tell someone about you, I don’t think they would believe me.”_ _

__It was true, she thought, as he began to pole them across the glassy waters of the lake. Who would really believe the ghost with the face of death and the voice of an angel was the saddest and most extraordinary man she had ever known?_ _

__

__Moncharmin cradled his pounding head in his hands, wishing that the day would simply end already. Four days. _Four days_ since he and Richard had taken the reigns and the Opera was already threatening to collapse around them, all because of some insane soprano and a chorus girl who seemed to have attracted the attention of the world beyond. _ _

__He dared to open his eyes again and read over the notes that had appeared the day before on both the manager’s desks. Just as Robert had foretold, the ghost had sent his review of the performance. He had been particularly effusive in praise for Christine Daaé:_ _

___As I am sure you are well aware, Daaé’s voice is far better suited to the roles of Marguerite and Gilda, which our former prima donna will wisely now leave behind in order to continue her career elsewhere and maintain her good health. As Daaé’s career began on the same day as your own, I may venture to say that fate has decreed her fortunes to be linked to yours; whether it be that they shall rise or fall together._ _ _

__The words had been so polite and eloquent, and yet there was an unmistakable threat there. Who had written it, in that ghastly, blood red ink and in that angular and elegant hand? Why did it make him feel cold breath on his neck whenever he read it again? Why was Richard so damn determined to ignore it?_ _

__Moncharmin looked up as the ornate door of the office, as ostentatious and intricate as most other ornaments in the Opera, swung open. Richard strode in, scowling just as grimly as he had the entire day._ _

__“Don’t start again, Armand,” the older man cut him off as he opened his mouth._ _

__“Firmin, you have to reconsider!” Moncharmin protested, replacing his spectacles and standing from his desk. Richard glared at him, his bald head reddening with renewed anger._ _

__“You cannot seriously believe this madness,” Richard barked, striding to Armand’s desk and seizing the ghost’s notes._ _

__“We can’t ignore it though!” the dark haired man argued desperately. “Everyone believes! Debienne and Poligny did…”_ _

__“Don’t be absurd, they are the ones behind this idiocy!” Richard scoffed. Moncharmin gaped at him. He too had thought for a second the previous managers were playing a joke on them, but that had been before he’d heard the tales of Poligny’s madness._ _

__“Are you mad? Did you see them when they left?” Richard grimaced and turned away, ignoring him. “I have been talking with people. This all started before they were even here. It’s always been this way. We can’t afford to ignore…”_ _

__“Yes we bloody can!” Richard roared, suddenly turning on the smaller man. “Would you rather ignore a ghost or a real person, Armand? A real person who, I apparently must remind you again, can and will bring this entire placed down around us!”_ _

__Moncharmin stood frozen, shocked by Richard’s anger and troubled by the strange impression he had heard some other noise, different from his colleague bellowing._ _

__“She’s bluffing. She doesn’t have that power, she’s just a singer,” he grumbled, wishing it were true. “Have you even seen this damn list of hers?”_ _

__“Yes, and its worse than even I thought.” Moncharmin felt the color go from his face. Richard’s expression was equally bleak. “Don’t you think I would rather keep the girl than that raving bitch? I went to some of her patrons today and they were utterly clear: if Carlotta does not sing, we lose their money. She has a hold over them…” Richard shook his head and sighed angrily._ _

__“But do we really have to do this to the girl?” Moncharmin ventured sickly. “It’s cruel. She has such a wonderful talent, to just…” he stopped again, certain her had heard something in the air, like a distant gasp or a whisper._ _

__“Carlotta was adamant,” Richard lamented as he sunk into his chair. “If she ever hears the girl has so much as sung in a café, she will destroy us.”_ _

__“It’s such a loss,” Moncharmin muttered._ _

__“The girl will survive,” Richard shrugged. “And so will we.” Moncharmin glanced at him, retaking his own seat at the great desk._ _

__“ _I would not be so certain of that_.” _ _

__Moncharmin jumped at the voice, cold and dark as a winter night and speaking right in his ear._ _

__“What did you just say?” Richard balked. Moncharmin stared at him, suddenly sick._ _

__“I didn’t say anything!” he protested, looking around the room fruitlessly for the speaker. There was no one else, no one hiding in a corner, nor waiting outside the tall windows that overlooked the Rue Halevy._ _

__“Don’t be foolish!” Richard snapped. Moncharmin shook his head again, fighting back the growing sense of dread. Richard rolled his eyes and turned to the mountain of paper on his desk, very clearly willfully ignoring what Moncharmin could not. Out of habit he removed his spectacles to clean them as he seated himself once again. He waited in silence, listening for another whisper or sigh from the emptiness._ _

__“ _This is not over, Monsieur, not remotely_ ,” came the voice at last and it made Moncharmin’s blood freeze in his veins. _ _

__He looked over to where Richard sat, completely unaware of the sound as his spectacles fell from his shaking hands._ _

__

__Christine held her breath, waiting for Erik or the managers to say something else as fury and anxiety battled spectacularly inside of her. Through some stroke of luck, she and Erik had arrived at the same time as Richard._ _

__The subsequent confrontation between the two men, and the revelation of Carlotta’s return and her plans, had been a blessed distraction from the smallness of the space beneath their office, and how close it forced them. The musty space was barely tall enough for Christine to stand straight, and quite tight for two people. Hiding there meant Erik was incredibly close to her, though he had remarkably avoided touching anything more than her hand in their journey through the walls._ _

__Now however, she could feel him inches from her in the dark, and it forced even the thought of her anger from her mind. There was only the barest hint of light from some distant chink in the floor or a wall, but it was enough to make out the outline of his thin form, looming and hunched beside her. Standing as still as she could, she could swear she felt the beat of his heart through the shadows. She was grateful for the dark that hid his eyes and her blush._ _

__“Come,” he ordered at last, softer than a breath with a nod in the direction they were to move. Christine let herself breathe again as he guided her through the twisting passages away from the hiding place below the office. Divorced from such close proximity to Erik, the anger that had flared in the dark was free to overtake her._ _

__Finally they reached the cool, open passages of the cellars proper. Erik stopped and turned to Christine, regarding her thoughtfully in the glow of distant gaslights._ _

__“Now you can say it,” he ordered wryly._ _

__“That _bitch_ ,” she spat, grimacing at the very thought of Carlotta. “That wretched, scheming harpy!”_ _

__“There’s a good girl,” he encouraged silkily, clearly very proud where most proper citizens would have been appalled at such an outburst._ _

__“How can she do this? Oh, I forgot; it’s easy when you’re a slimy, heartless toad of a woman!” Christine ranted. She shot Erik a glare as he began to laugh, which only seemed to encourage him._ _

__“I’m sorry, I just do enjoy seeing you so angry, at least when its not at me,” he excused himself and Christine gave an exasperated sigh and began to walk, following Erik’s lead through the gloomy labyrinth._ _

__“I thought she might try and get me fired again, but to not let me sing anywhere…” Christine felt sick at the thought._ _

__“You must know I would never let that happen,” Erik consoled her, stepping in front of her and forcing her to look in his eyes. Christine paused, overcome by his sudden sincerity. “I’ve been trying to get rid of her for three years, which means I knew it wouldn’t be easy to do this. But this is your opera now, as much as it is mine, and I will not let her take it back.”_ _

__“I believe you,” Christine whispered, forgetting her anger and once more as aware of his closeness as she had been in the dark below the manager’s office. He gave her a faint smile and began to move confidently through the dark once more. “What made Carlotta so…evil, anyway?” Christine asked sourly as they walked._ _

__“Well, I think she knows she’s not a great singer, but she dearly wants to be treated like one,” Erik mused. “I think that’s why she hates you in particular: not only did you stand up to her, but you’re actually a hundred times better. She’s ashamed of herself really, spends all her life trying to outrun who she is.”_ _

__“What do you mean?” Christine inquired, interested and finding it rather ironic that Erik of all people would criticize someone for trying to be someone else._ _

__“Well, she’s not Italian for one.”_ _

__“I would never have guessed,” Christine muttered sarcastically. “Where is she from, France?”_ _

__“Oh no, she’s from a place far more shameful: America,” Erik whispered deviously and Christine laughed._ _

__“That is scandalous!”_ _

__Erik seemed pleased with her unsympathetic reaction. “Her whole family lived in New York, most of them singers, and all of them much better than her from what I hear, especially her older sister,” Erik continued lazily. “Carlotta hates her I think, for being better and for all the attention she gets without having to force people to listen. She’s the one who gets to marry a Marquis and leave him for a tenor.”_ _

__“Marry a Marquis? I’ve only heard of one singer to do that…” Christine glanced doubtfully at Erik. He tilted his head and gave a sly smile to indicate that there was indeed only one. “No! She’s Adelina Patti’s sister?”_ _

__“Yes,” Erik confirmed with a wicked smile. Christine’s mouth fell open in shock. Impossibly, Carlotta was sister to the most famous singer in all of Europe, perhaps the world._ _

__“How could someone so awful be the sister of someone so good?” Christine demanded in disbelief._ _

__“Stranger things have happened. I guess Adelina just got all the good in the family,” Erik shrugged and Christine shook her head, trying to comprehend._ _

__“And so that’s how she ended up the only thing in the Opera more frightening than you,” Christine thought aloud and drew a dark laugh from Erik. She liked it when he laughed, especially when it was here in the dank, gloomy reaches of his kingdom._ _

__“Don’t be ridiculous, there are other things far more frightening than me, especially down here.”_ _

__Christine caught his eye with a look of dismay and he gave another elegant shrug._ _

__“What do you mean _other things_?” she demanded nervously. “You’re the only one down here, aren’t you?” _ _

__Erik was infuriatingly silent._ _

__“ _Aren’t you_?”_ _

__“Well, there have always been stories about the cellars, even before I came here. Legends about the spirits of communard prisoners or workers who died while the foundation was being laid – who is to say they’re not true?” Erik mused casually as they came to the place where he had left the lantern. He reignited the flame and regarded Christine’s increasingly pale face and they began to descend below the third cellar. “Of course, you don’t believe in ghosts, but there is also the rat catcher.”_ _

__“The _what_?” Christine pushed back, her voice thick with new fears, suddenly feeling as if the dark around them was much less empty._ _

__“Well, there’s a story about me – I think you’ve heard it – wandering about with a head of fire?” Christine nodded in confusion. “Well, that’s not me, it’s the rat catcher. He’s paid by the managers to keep the rats to a minimum. He comes through once in a while shining a light on his face and it makes the all the rats follow him.”_ _

__“How many is ‘all?’” Christine asked against her better judgment._ _

__“Well, when I ran in to him I would guess it was hundreds, maybe over a thousand. As you can imagine it’s terribly unpleasant to be caught in his path, all those little claws and tails…”_ _

__Christine gave a small noise of horrified disgust and Erik laughed, deep in his throat._ _

__“Erik, that is not funny,” Christine protested, moving a bit closer to him as they walked._ _

__“Don’t worry, he only comes around in the evenings every few weeks, I’m sure he’s not here today,” Erik consoled her as she glared at him, trying to keep her expression serious. “Well, I’m almost sure,” he added and laughed as Christine’s eyes and mouth flew wide in indignation again._ _

__She was only able to maintain the expression for a moment before joining him. She would never have guessed it would be so easy and comforting to laugh with him, and that she would trust his laughter so easily. What better way was there than laughing with a ghost to drive away the dark?_ _

__

__Richard pulled on his gloves roughly as he exited the Opera, perturbed that his carriage was not yet there to receive him. He should have expected it, after the way the rest of the day had gone. For all he knew the driver would blame a goblin for making him late._ _

__“Monsieur Richard?” a polite male voice asked from behind him. Richard rounded on the man, a foreigner by the look of him. He seemed surprised by Richard’s exhausted glare, but undeterred._ _

__“Who the hell are you?” Richard demanded impatiently._ _

__“Who I am is not of great importance, suffice to say I am a friend of the Opera,” the man answered evasively in clear French with only the hint of an exotic accent. Richard grimaced; he had already had his fill for the week of people being mysterious._ _

__“What do you want? I’ll have you know, friend, that my last ounce of patience was exhausted at noon.” The foreigner seemed far too committed to his mission to be troubled by Richard’s foul temper._ _

__“I wish to enquire if you have seen or heard from Christine Daaé,” the man explained and Richard stifled the urge to strike him. It was that last name he wanted to hear – well, second to last after bloody Carlotta Zambelli._ _

__“Mademoiselle Daaé is no longer an employee of the Opera,” Richard spat and the man seemed truly shocked. “Or at least she won’t be if I can ever find the damn girl to fire her.”_ _

__Blessedly Richard’s coach finally appeared around the corner of the Rue Halevy. Richard moved towards the brougham and the man caught his arm._ _

__“Sir, you must not do that,” the foreigner implored, his face and voice so deathly serious it actually gave Richard pause for a brief moment. “The consequences of displeasing _him_ are not worth it.” _ _

__Richard scowled and twisted out of the man’s grasp._ _

__“I have no idea who you are talking about, Sir,” Richard chastised the man and watched his dark features go slack. “But if the consequences of getting rid of the girl are worse than what I’m already facing, that will certainly be something to see!”_ _

__Without another word Richard jumped into his carriage, signaling his driver to move. He did not look back to where he left the mad foreigner staring after in him the dirty gleam of the gaslights. Christine Daaé had caused enough trouble for him that he was beginning to actually look forward to firing the ingénue, almost as much as he was looking forward to enjoying the next performance from box five. He would show this damn “ghost” who had the power now._ _

__

__Erik watched her blink sleepily in the firelight, trying to memorize the look of contentment on her face. It was not happiness, but it was not fear or anger. The last words of the play they had been reading still lingered in the air. It had taken a long time to get through the entire thing, but she had not seemed to mind._ _

__Just as she had not seemed to mind the meager supper he had produced for them from his stores, or the darkness, or having him close to her to read from the same volume, or the fact that he could not help staring at her. He did not think she could begrudge him that last crime especially, since she had watched him throughout the day almost as intently as he had watched her._ _

__“You’re tired,” he whispered regretfully._ _

__“I’m not…” Christine began to protest but became caught in a yawn._ _

__“It’s past midnight, and you have a rehearsal tomorrow to rest for,” he chided, not really meaning it. Half of him dearly wanted her to stay with him, to fall asleep where he could watch her again, but that would not be a wise decision for either of them._ _

__“You mean I’ll have a long day being fired tomorrow,” she muttered crossly._ _

__“I told you, I’ll do my best to keep that from happening,” he reminded her and she gave a tired nod. “And if it does, trust me when I say Carlotta and the managers will regret it.” Slowly Christine rose from her place on the couch and moved languidly to her door. The loss of her warmth beside him caused surprisingly acute pain and he shut his eyes on the sudden ache._ _

__“When it comes to that, I do.” Erik opened his eyes in confusion at the words._ _

__“What?” he asked, growing quickly distracted by the relaxed posture of her body as she leaned on the frame of her door, running one hand over her dark hair._ _

__“When it comes to dealing with the managers, and this whole mess, I do trust you,” she clarified, her hand coming to rest on the nape of her neck and her eyes meeting his shyly._ _

__He gave her another nod, unable to find any words, as was becoming often the case when she showed such feeling. He watched her, unable to look away from her eyes as she took a deep breath. The look of contentment was gone from her face now, and something like apprehension had replaced it. She had to be quite tired, for most of her time with him she had been much better at hiding the fear and remembrance that would invade her eyes at times like these. What did she expect of him?_ _

__Slowly he rose from his seat, setting the book aside, and observed the slight catch in her breath when he moved and the subtle darkening of her cheeks. He moved towards her slowly, trying to ignore the pounding of his own heart and the wrenching anticipation dancing beneath his skin. It was almost impossible to resist the urge to touch her as he found himself only a few inches from where she stood, her hand clenched tensely on the frame of the door._ _

__Without looking away from her he drew a book from the shelf between the fireplace and her door, an old copy of _Candide_._ _

__“In case you still have trouble sleeping,” he whispered as he handed the volume to her. She took it with a shaking hand, very clearly confused and relieved. “Goodnight, Christine,” he nodded to her._ _

__She swallowed hesitantly._ _

__“Goodnight, Erik,” she murmured back. She turned from him abruptly and closed the door swiftly behind her._ _

__The moment she was gone Erik gasped for air, his hard kept composure disintegrating. He had to move, had to get as far away from her unlocked door as soon as possible, but he felt frozen to the spot. He didn’t want to return to the bed he had shared with her, he didn’t want to face the dreams of her again. No, they were nightmares, not dreams, those awful visions that had come when he closed his eyes the night before._ _

__With great difficultly he finally found the strength to move, reaching deep in his soul to swear again that he would not hurt her, not like that. He never wanted to cause her pain again. He had sworn that before though and broken the vow so easily. How long before his weakness triumphed once more and the need to possess her and touch her again overwhelmed even his love? How long before she realized she was a fool to trust him again?_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carlotta's backstory is a conflation of two real life Carlottas: Carlotta Zambelli who was a featured soprano at the Paris Opera for many seasons, and Carlotta Patti, who was the sister of the famous Adelina Patti (look her up!). Carlotta Patti confined most of her work to America, but I thought it was a fun reference.


	4. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of confrontations complicates life at the opera even more.

For the third day in a row Raoul was too distracted to think about eating breakfast. His hope of avoiding being seen leaving so early again was dashed however when Sabine caught him in the foyer, receiving his hat and coat from the footman. 

“Off to the Opera again?” his sisten asked with a tone that would freeze brandy. 

Raoul immediately felt himself transform from a capable young man to a terrified boy of five under her piercing gaze. Sabine had darker features than her older and younger brothers. Philippe and Raoul had both inherited their father’s chiseled profile but the effect was softened by their mother’s warm eyes and smile. Sabine, on the other had, was every bit as sharp featured and dark eyed as the previous Comte De Chagny. In her high collared dress of navy silk she was every bit as imposing as both their parents combined.

“No,” Raoul replied meekly. He hadn’t been going directly to the Opera…“I was going to Church.”

“On a Wednesday morning?” 

Raoul felt himself shrinking further. “Well, I felt like a walk and…” he attempted again but Sabine’s glare of disapproval was enough to silence him.

“Oh let the boy go!” Philippe bellowed groggily from the top of the stairs. Sabine turned her icy gaze to her older brother but it did not have the same effect on him as on Raoul, since he was five years her elder and had never listened to anyone.

“You should be ashamed for encouraging him, Philippe,” Sabine chided. Philippe shook his head lazily as he ran his hand through his tousled hair. 

“No, you would be ashamed if he actually did what I encouraged him to do,” Philippe shot back and Sabine scowled. Raoul had never been privy to an argument between parents, since his mother had died in childbirth with him, but he was rather sure they would be quite similar to what he was witnessing. “I took the boy to the Opera to enjoy himself, and now he won’t stop pining over his soprano!”

“I am not pining,” Raoul grumbled in protest, though he was unable to see how that was worse than Philippe’s continuing adventures with the prima ballerina.

“Raoul, you don’t even know the girl,” Sabine sighed, completely unconvinced by her little brother’s denial.

“Oh but he does,” Philippe countered and Raoul had the sudden urge to throttle him. “We all know her apparently. She and her father used to work for us at the house in Perros during the summers.” Sabine looked aghast at this.

“This infamous singer is that little Swedish thing who you thought was the love of your life?”   
“Well, he was fourteen,” Philippe defended his brother as he sauntered down the stairs, already growing bored with the argument. “Though I do recall it took him a few years to realize she was not the only girl on earth.”

“Didn’t we dismiss them for stealing?” Sabine pushed back.

“You dismissed them because you didn’t want us to be together!” Raoul blurted out, finally finding his voice. “I know the story about Christine stealing was a lie. She was a good girl.” 

Sabine raised an eyebrow and Philippe rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“And you think she’s still a good girl, now that she works at the Opera?” Sabine needled with a meaningful glance towards Philippe. Sabine clearly knew exactly what sort of women Philippe was accustomed to associating with in the gilded halls of the Palais Garnier.

“She is,” Raoul affirmed. 

In his whole life he had never known anyone as kind and bright as Christine, and the years had not dimmed her light – at least when she was on stage. In their encounters in the real world however there had clearly been something different about her that he could not place. Which was why he had to find her again; he knew without a doubt that she needed his help. 

Sabine’s exasperated sigh brought him back to reality.

“Come on Sabi, let him go,” Philippe muttered, pulling gently as his little sister’s elbow. She gave him an irritable look but did not protest. She was never able to resist when Philippe called her by the pet name he’s given her when she was only four, years before Raoul was born. It always served to remind her of how Philippe had always been there to take care of her, and Raoul, first after their father had died and especially after her husband’s passing in that awful fire.

“Fine, go pine after your little songbird,” Sabine muttered and Raoul jumped to obey. 

He shot out of the door, awkwardly pulling on his coat as he ran out to the street, narrowly avoiding tripping on a patch of ice. He wished some days that his family did not know him so well. It was incredibly embarrassing to have one’s feelings discussed as if one was not there. At least they were only half right this time. He had thought Christine was the only girl in the world when they had parted, but they were wrong in thinking he had ever stopped feeling that way and hoping to find her again. 

 

Christine took a deep breath of the cool, musty air of the cellars. Despite Erik’s tales of rat catchers and other restless spirits she was beginning to grow accustomed enough to his world to find parts of it almost pleasant. As he walked beside him, safe in the glow of his lantern, she felt more at liberty to take in the details. 

The heavy gray stone of the walls was rough, as if the builder had been as anxious to be done with the construction and return to the light as most others who ventured so deep. The air was thick with the scent of stone and the ancient smell of the earth, but it was not unpleasant. And it was quiet, so deathly and perfectly quiet, save for the tap of her steps in the dark.

“Have you taken me this way before?” she asked as they passed around a large, circular vault, flanked by arches of implacable masonry. 

“Only once,” Erik answered, his voice somewhat distant. “But we were going down, not up.” 

They had come this way the first night, Christine realized, now understanding why the few landmarks she had noticed seemed like something out of a dream. The path seemed very different now, without his voice weaving its spell over or the protective and thrilling feel of an angel’s hand holding hers. He had held her hand to guide her for the entire journey that first night, just as he had done when he returned, but today he had only barely touched her to help her in and out of the boat. 

“We are going back to my dressing room then?” she ventured and Erik nodded silently. 

She wished he would say something more, since his silence had a way of making her incredibly nervous. The morning had been occupied almost entirely by another lesson, if that was even the right word for it. Even remembering the music in the silent dark made Christine feel dizzy and amazed. They had sung Mozart and Verdi today, as well as Rossini as a rare indulgence, but the greatest wonder had been when Erik had let her rest her voice, then played his own music for her once again. The beauty of it had captivated and terrified her.

Christine’s thoughts came to a halt when she realized they had stopped moving. Even remembering his voice made her forget the rest of the world, she mused as she took in their surroundings. They were in a narrow passage, one wall made of rough gray stone and the other made of unfinished wood. Christine had learned yesterday that the wood was always unfinished when you looked at it from inside the walls. 

Erik raised his lantern higher to give them more light and Christine realized that one part of the wall was not made of rough wood, but instead seemed to be open. No, not open. The wall looked like it was made of glass, about the size of the mirror she had stared at so often…Christine gasped as she realized exactly where they were.

“I did see you in the mirror,” she whispered. “When you told me about the trap doors and false walls, I guessed there was one here, but it wasn’t a wall…” Christine was able to see the familiar shapes of her dressing room through the glass.

“I installed the mirror when I first came, to hide the most direct route to the lake and to me,” Erik explained carefully, his obvious implication being that the existence of the mirror had proceeded his acquaintance with her. 

“You could see me, I wasn’t just imagining it,” Christine murmured. Every time she had felt the angel’s eyes watching her it had been Erik behind the mirror. When she had fallen asleep feeling so safe under that heavenly gaze it had been him. Every time she had felt a sinful thrill when she exposed her skin to the glass, he had been there to see it. “You saw everything…” she breathed and Erik caught her eyes rather guiltily.

“Not everything,” he whispered back with a small shrug, both innocent and roguish at the same time. “And I’ve always seen you.” 

Before Christine could protest or think about the claim Erik raised his free hand to touch a small mechanism, very clearly making sure Christine saw how it was done, and the glass slid back silently. Erik indicated it was safe for her to step through. Christine felt as if she was stepping back into another world or another life. The last time she had been in this room her life had been so different. 

She moved to light the gaslights. She had only made it to one before she realized Erik had not moved from the dark passage.

“You won’t come in?” she asked and felt quite foolish the moment she said it. Of course Erik would not want to step into a room full of mirrors. He stared at her, sad and bemused for a moment framed in the shadows where he had hidden so often.

“As I have said, I had hoped to meet with Moncharmin before rehearsal,” Erik reminded her, though his voice was rather tense. 

Christine smiled sadly, aware that Erik meant he was going to frighten any thought of firing Christine from Moncharmin’s mind. She felt a little sorry for the jovial manager, but not enough to save him.

“Where will I go after?” Christine asked nervously. “Shall I come back here?” Erik seemed rather surprised at this, as if he had not been expecting her to return with him so easily.

“If you can,” he answered. “Otherwise go to the cellars, and I will find you.” 

Christine nodded hesitantly. She did not like the idea of wandering in the dark alone; all the more reason to hope that Erik was successful with Moncharmin. 

“Remember, whatever Carlotta says…”

“I have a far more powerful patron than her,” Christine finished firmly. 

Erik gave her a look of approval, his eyes sweeping over her as if to more fully appreciate the dangerous fire he had ignited in his protégée. It made Christine feel simultaneously strong and defenseless. Here, waiting in the dark on the edge of the world that until so recently had been hers, was the man who saw her more completely than any other. The most powerful man in the Opera, who was prepared to use every ounce of that power for her benefit, was watching her with unchecked longing from the shadows. 

With a subtle movement of his hand, he triggered the mechanism and the mirror slid back in place as if looking at her while she watched had become too painful. Christine found herself suddenly and disconcertingly alone, save for the lingering feel of his gaze. 

“Erik…” she whispered to her reflection. Her skin was golden against the deep blue fabric of her dress in the soft glow of the gaslight and her eyes were wide and expectant. “Are you sure you will be able to find me?” she asked nervously, once more feeling as if she was speaking to a ghost and still chilled by the look of adoration and darkness that had been in the eyes that were now hidden.

“I will always find you.”

She felt the moment he looked away and retreated and her eyes flew open as she gasped for breath. It was like coming up from a long time underwater. The world was suddenly brighter and harsher, and incredibly empty.

Christine sank in to the little chair at her vanity, glancing to the daguerreotype photograph of her father; glad he was not there to reprimand her for her myriad sins. Would he even recognize the woman his daughter had become under the influence of the angel he had promised? He would have warned her that all this was folly and to care only for the music, for music was the only thing she could trust. Christine sighed, once again reminded of Carlotta and her plan to take music from Christine forever. She had an hour before she would have to face the ordeal of rehearsal. What would she do while she waited?

Christine opened the drawer of her vanity and pulled out the tattered book she had kept with her for half her life, considering reading it again. She was sure anything she read would be in Erik’s voice in her mind, or at least a faint imitation of it. The only other book in the drawer was not a book at all; it was a blank diary Adele had given her as a gift at Christmas, telling her to fill it with her conquests and adventures. If only Adele or anyone knew of her adventures… 

Christine smiled sadly to herself and sighed again as she opened the volume to the first blank page with one hand and picked up a pen with the other. Maybe this would help her understand what had happened, if nothing else. As she dipped the pen in her little inkwell, she wondered if it was wise to write down such secrets. As was her new habit, the wisdom of a decision did not seem to dissuade her from it. Carefully, she began to write.

_I have never written a diary. I never really thought the events of my life would merit the attention of posterity. That was before I came to the Opera though, before my life became the strange story I have found myself in. How odd, to have grown up loving ghost stories and now find myself in one, more or less. I cannot imagine who will ever read this, or why, but whoever you are, I beg you: do not think too ill of me for what I have done…and what I know I will do._

Christine paused, feeling an odd sense of connection to some unknown reader that urged her on. She had started her confession and there was no going back now.

_I should begin with the day I came here, the day that changed my life…_

 

Erik tried to shake off the unnerving feeling of solitude as he slipped through the walls and darkened corridors to find Armand Moncharmin. It was very hard to ignore the memory of Christine’s face on the other side of the mirror, watching the glass and knowing he was there. Almost as hard as it was not to think about how different it felt to walk the halls alone again, without the sound of her breath or the feel of her body beside him in the dark. He had never felt less like a ghost than he did today, which was quite inconvenient since the phantom was required for a command performance.

Erik moved by way of the flies, and observed the scene backstage from above. There were already a few performers and stagehands milling about far ahead of the imminent rehearsal: two mezzos complaining quietly about the sopranos, enormous Alonzo, one of his preferred servants, and surprisingly Robert Rameau and none other than Armand Moncharmin. 

Erik smiled grimly at the stroke of luck. He gripped a rope and lowered himself farther down to better hear the conversation, which seemed rather more familiar than he would have expected.

“…of course I’ll be there,” Moncharmin was replying. “I could not stay way if I wanted to.” 

Erik cocked his head. There had been something oddly breathless about the answer.

“Why ever would you want to stay away?” Rameau replied, his deep voice tender and a glint in his eye. Moncharmin looked away, clearly flustered.

“Perhaps we can talk more of this later,” the manager was muttering as he removed his spectacles and began to clean them with a limp white handkerchief.

“Perhaps tonight after rehearsal,” Rameau replied smoothly without missing a beat. He placed his hand on the manager’s, forcing the nervous man to be still and look at him. The look in his face reminded Erik of the way Christine had just looked at him, when he had said he always saw her. “You know where to find me.” 

Erik did not watch the bass as he turned without another word and left, he was too focused on Moncharmin who was staring after the man with a look of hopeless longing and fear that Erik intimately understood. Perhaps there were other ways of gaining the man’s compliance, aside from simple terror.

Moncharmin was easy to follow now that Erik had him in his sights. He left the stage and took the corridor towards the stairs leading up to the warren of offices and dressing rooms, perhaps to attend to some business with a director or other artist. 

It was almost too simple, Erik thought, as he cut ahead to the deserted staircase the manager would have to take. He hid a flight below where Moncharmin would pass, safe in the shadows and next to the valve the controlled the supply of gas to the lights through the entire stair. Erik smiled to himself as he heard the man’s footsteps above him and slowly dimmed the lights, not all the way, not yet. 

The footsteps stopped above him and he could hear very clearly the sound of Moncharmin’s rapid breath. 

“I am so glad I could finally catch you alone, Monsieur.” He let his voice resonate in the echoing stairwell. 

“Oh God…” Moncharmin whispered, his voice shaking with fear.

“God is not listening, Armand,” Erik shot back, cold and grim. The manager gave a little sound of terror. “You have disappointed me.” Erik pronounced each syllable carefully, letting the full impact of his unearthly voice sink in.

“What have I done?” Moncharmin asked in horror.

“Thankfully, you have not done it yet,” Erik replied.

“The girl…” 

Erik smiled. He was glad the man was catching on so quickly. 

“I swear, it is not my choice!”

“Swearing is not doing, Armand,” Erik snapped back. “Are you not the artistic manager? Do you not have final say over the hiring and firing of all artists?”

“But Richard had final say over the money!” Moncharmin argued in despair. “He has to answer to the patrons!” 

“And you will have to answer to me if you let this happen,” Erik echoed him and turned the lights out entirely. He moved soundlessly in the dark, enjoying the sound of Moncharmin’s frenzied panting. Only the barest of illumination penetrated the stair, but it was enough for the manager to see the shadow move beside him in the dark. “Do you really want you next performance to be in an opera with a curse on it?”

“There is nothing I can do…” Moncharmin whimpered, as Erik circled him in the dark.

“Yes, there is, you simply must not tell our friend Richard about it,” Erik countered. He felt the manager trembling. “As you know, everyone keeps secrets here at the Opera, except from me. Ask Robert Rameau if you do not believe it.” Moncharmin gasped sharply in the dark as Erik withdrew back down the stairs. 

Erik slipped quickly from the stairwell, hoping that he had done enough. It was very doubtful that Christine would emerge from the rehearsal unscathed, but at least now he was sure that she would have assurances from someone other than him that her dismissal was only temporary. 

Erik wished he had been able to see Moncharmin’s expression of shock and terror. The memory would have been a welcome distraction from the thought of what would happen when he found Christine again and they way she would look at him in the shadows.

 

Meg received a glare from a tenor as she rushed through the hall backstage, more frantic and worried than usual. She had already tried Christine’s dressing room earlier in the day, but perhaps she would have better luck so close to rehearsal time. 

Meg hated making the lonely trek to her friend’s dressing room alone. It always seemed colder and darker in the deserted hall. She hoped that once Christine was a proper diva she would promptly move to some place less eerie. Meg came to the door of dressing room thirteen and nearly jumped when the door opened as she raised her hand to knock.

“Christine!” she yelped and threw her arms around the startled soprano. 

“Meg?” Christine greeted her back in shock as she tried to disentangle herself. 

Meg pulled back, rather embarrassed by her outburst but still incredibly happy to see her friend healthy and alive. Meg examined Christine’s appearance carefully, hoping to see evidence that it had been foolish of her to expect something had happened to the singer after her strange disappearance and even stranger reappearance looking so sick and broken the next day. 

She was not sure if what she saw made her feel better: Christine was dressed in a gorgeous gown of blue damask silk that she had never worn before – that Meg had seen – but she looked paler and there was something tired and dark in her eyes that made Meg shiver.

“Where have you been?” Meg demanded as firmly as she could. Christine seemed rather surprised at the question, as if she had not expected anyone to notice that she had been missing. Christine seemed to be searching for words when she caught sight of something behind Meg.

“Ah, she returns at last,” Adele DuVal purred as Meg turned to see her. She had that infuriating look on her face that said without words that she knew so many secret things Meg did not. 

“See, she’s been looking for you too!” Meg grumbled. 

Christine was looking nervously between her two friends. “I’ve just been here, at the Opera, like always,” Christine muttered as she closed the door of her dressing room behind her.   
For the first time that Meg had ever seen, she took care to lock it. It was just another odd thing that meant something had changed and she was not allowed to know what it was.

“Liar,” Meg accused dejectedly. Adele raised an eyebrow and Christine’s face fell in confusion. “Unlike you, I remember things my friends say, so I know you stay here. I’ve been looking in every prop room and costume shop in the Opera for you for three days and I didn’t find you. No one has seen you until now.”

“Maybe she didn’t want to be seen, little rat,” Adele interjected before Christine could protest. “Lovely new dress by the way. Someone must agree with me that blue is your color.” 

Christine glared at Adele as Meg looked back and forth between the two older women. The dancer gave a little gasp as she realized Adele’s implication.

“Christine! I thought…” Meg was aghast. Christine had always been so adamant that she didn’t have any romantic entanglements, but what other reason could there be to turn away someone as perfect as Raoul de Chagny?

“I was not with a patron, Meg,” Christine corrected her friend before she could think further. 

“But you were with someone!” Meg protested. 

Adele gave an extremely condescending sigh, as if that should have been obvious. And here Meg had been thinking Christine had taken ill or been fired or been abducted by the ghost! 

Christine looked away from her friends and began to walk tensely down the hall. Meg and Adele followed close behind. “I…I can’t tell you…” she muttered with great difficulty. 

“Please, Christine! I’ve been so worried!” Meg begged, honest but also fascinated. Christine turned and looked from Meg to Adele and back again, squirming under their impatient gazes. She seemed to take a moment to look into the shadows beyond them as well.

“I was with…my music teacher.” Even Adele looked surprised at this. “I’ve been taking lessons with him for a while and he wanted me to devote more time to my music…”

“Music teacher? Well, that was not what I expected,” Adele drawled. “I guess that does explain how you were able to sing the way you did.”

“ _No one_ can know I’ve told you this,” Christine ordered with a ferocity that shocked Meg. “He is very private. He does not even want it known he gives lessons.”

“We won’t tell,” Meg promised quickly. Christine looked absolutely serious for a moment, as if the promise was not nearly enough.

“We may not ever get the chance,” Adele added and Meg turned her confused look to the curvaceous soprano. “I came to find you to warn you that Carlotta is back and, as I hear it, out for blood.” 

Meg gasped but Christine was oddly calm and resolute upon hearing that her rival had returned.

“I know,” Christine sighed. “And I don’t think there is any use in trying to hide.”

“You know?” Meg echoed as the trio continued on their way towards the stage. “How did you know if you’ve been off…singing for days?” 

Adele also gave Christine a curious look.

“My teacher knows a great deal of secrets,” Christine almost whispered. 

Something in her tone made Meg feel very cold. It was the same darkness that had been in her eyes, the same gravity that made Meg unsure if it was truly wise to keep Christine’s secret. Why one earth would a music teacher need to be secret? And why would he know about Carlotta?

“Christine, are you sure you’re alright?” Meg demanded hesitantly as they drew close to the stage. At that moment Meg caught sight of one of the new managers striding quickly in their direction. It was the younger one, Monsieur Moncharmin, and he looked incredibly pale and shaken, but this too did not seem to faze Christine. 

“I’ll be fine, Meg,” Christine answered with a distracted air as she moved away from Meg and Adele. “You don’t need to worry about me.” Meg wanted to protest but the manager was already pulling Christine aside and Adele was guiding Meg in the other direction.

“Leave her be, little rat,” Adele scolded as Meg looked hopelessly after her friend. “Christine is a big girl, she knows what she doing.” 

Meg caught Adele’s knowing look and frowned. “I think you’re right,” Meg muttered feebly. “That is what scares me.” 

Adele threw up her hands in defeat as Meg squirmed out of her grip. Taking care not to be noticed, she made her way through the gathering crowd towards the corner where Christine and Moncharmin were talking intently. Moncharmin seemed extremely worried, but Christine seemed more annoyed than concerned. Meg ducked behind a tangle of ropes to listen better, telling herself that her friend would not mind.

“Richard will back her, but do not listen to them. I have final say over the hiring and firing of artists…” 

Meg stifled a little gasp at this. How could they fire Christine? Why was she not more upset at this?

“Monsieur, I’m not sure I understand – am I fired or not?” Christine asked impatiently. “Should I leave now?”

“No, Carlotta wants to make a show of it,” Moncharmin sighed and Christine gave the man a glare that reminded Meg of the fire she admired so much in her friend. “Believe me, Mademoiselle, I tried to talk her and Richard out of it! She says she won’t sing unless it is done this way!”

“Well we wouldn’t want that,” Christine spat tartly and Moncharmin flinched.

“I want you here during Faust, on Saturday,” he begged softly, as if he was frightened Carlotta would hear him. “I’m afraid they will try and keep you out of the theater and if she sees you…”

“Monsieur, no power on earth could keep me out,” Christine cut him off. “And there are a great deal of places to hide in this theater.” 

If it was possible the man went a bit paler as he nodded.

“I shall see you then, Mademoiselle,” he stuttered unsurely. Christine fixed him with a look of pure determination that made Meg’s blood freeze.

“I promise you will.” Christine stared after the manager as he stumbled away towards the stage. “You can come out now, Meg,” Christine ordered and Meg gulped. 

Christine said nothing more as Meg slunk from her hiding place, but her expression of resigned disapproval reminded Meg very much of the looks her mother gave her when she found out she had been spending more time with the singers and at the patron’s receptions.

“Are they really firing you?” Meg asked meekly, knowing she was risking another glare. 

“They are going to try,” Christine grumbled. 

Meg braced herself as she and Christine stepped onto the crowded stage and felt Christine do the same. The jealously Meg usually felt for the older singer faded a bit as half the heads of the company turned to look at Christine and the buzz of conversation grew markedly in volume. 

Meg didn’t have to make out the individual comments or conversations to know they were all asking the same questions she had been asking since Christine first opened her mouth to sing as Marguerite. Where had she come from? How had she learned to sing like that? Where had she disappeared to? Did she look different today? There had always been something off about the girl, don’t you agree? What was Carlotta going to do to her? The fact that Meg knew the answers to at least some of these questions did nothing to console her.

Meg glanced at Christine again, wondering how she could bear the scrutiny, but Christine was not looking at the crowd. Her eyes were closed, as if she was listening for something no one else could here. Meg knew the far away expression in her friend’s face. It was the one Christine had so often when she thought no one else was looking, or when they passed through the shadows. Meg could not explain why, but it always made her feel like Christine was performing some sort of magic or reaching out to some other world…which was absurd. Whatever it was, it seemed to calm the singer. 

Christine set her chin bravely and proceeded towards where the other principals were gathering at center stage. This drew more whispers and raised eyebrows and made Meg shrink in sympathy. Everyone was watching Christine as she fixed her eyes on the wings from which she knew Carlotta would emerge. Robert Rameau whispered something to her and she gave a faint smile. It faded quickly as a high, pompous voice chimed from the wings.

“Ah, I thought I smelled something from the gutter.” Carlotta walked lazily towards Christine, looking her rival up and down with untempered scorn. Everyone was focused on the two sopranos now.

“I see your time away has not dimmed your charm,” Christine shot back coolly, provoking a new round of murmurs. 

Meg looked through the crowd, glad to find other faces mirroring her own feelings of anger at the diva and hope that Christine would make a spectacle of the she-demon once again.

“What do you think you are doing here any way, seamstress?” Carlotta snarled, taken aback by Christine’s defiance.

“My job,” Christine answered and Carlotta’s face broke into a terrible, sadistic grin.

“At last I can say this with certainty: You have no job,” Carlotta declared with glee. Christine did not blink, even as gasps and murmurs echoed around her. 

“Funny, no one has bothered to tell me that,” Christine replied, steel in her voice. 

Meg prayed that one day she could be even half so brave.

“I wanted to be the first. You will never sing here, or anywhere, ever again,” Carlotta informed Christine and burst into laughter. “Of course, before you leave us, I did want to ask how you did it.” 

Christine cocked her head, clearly not prepared for this line of attack. 

“What are you talking about?” It was Carlos Fontana who asked it, in an offended tone, surprising everyone. “How did she do _what_?”

“Not only find someone to trick me out of performing, but convince some fool to recommend you in my place,” Carlotta replied easily. “I wonder, was it one lover or two that did it for you?” Carlotta gave Fontana a quick look and a sneer. “Or perhaps three.”

“Now see here…” Robert Rameau stepped forward to defend Christine’s honor as the crowd erupted in chatter.

Carlotta fixed the bass with a gaze of such deadly venom he stopped in his tracks. Meg once again wished she were close enough to claw the woman’s smug face.

“It’s not like this little piece of offal has anything else to offer,” Carlotta continued, undeterred, then turned her attention back to Christine. “Though I do find it hard to believe that you really thought you could fool the audience too…”

“How do you do it?” Christine cut her off. Carlotta stared at Christine in shock as the taller woman slowly advanced on her. “How can you even sing when you know that you are up there because of fear and lies? No one wants to hear your voice, and you know it. Everyone knows you have no heart or soul to sing with. How can you even bear it?” 

Carlotta gaped at Christine, the triumph and satisfaction draining with the color from her face. 

“Look at what you’ve become. Reduced to blackmail and bullying to hang on to the position you know you don’t deserve. Aren’t you ashamed?” Christine pushed and Carlotta seemed to shrink a bit under the dark-haired woman’s furious gaze. Meg held her breath as Christine leaned closer to Carlotta, waiting for the final blow. “ _What would you family say_?”

“You stupid bitch!” Carlotta screamed almost loud enough to drown out the sound of the furious slap she delivered to Christine’s face. 

Meg gasped as Christine reeled back, cradling her cheek. 

“Get out!” Carlotta howled raising her hand to strike again. “Get out!”

“No!” Christine defied her, ducking away. “Not until I hear this from a manager’s mouth!” With eyes like iron she turned to the managers who hovered at the back of the stage. Moncharmin was pale and voiceless. The task would clearly be left to Richard. 

“I’m sorry, Mademoiselle,” Richard told her sternly. “But you will have to leave.”

“I never want to see that little cunt in the building ever again!” Carlotta screeched, her eyes mad with fury and triumph. 

Meg looked frantically about for someone to step to Christine’s defense. Surely Fontana or Rameau or Moncharmin would do something now! Richard gave a curt nod and a massive stagehand appeared from the wings. The indignity of having Christine escorted out like a criminal made Meg’s blood boil, but Christine did not resist. She seemed defeated but determined.

“Get back to the street where you belong, _whore_ ,” Carlotta hissed as Christine was shown off the stage. 

Christine spun to fix the livid soprano with one last look of pure loathing as scandalized gasps rippled through the company.

“You will regret this,” Christine told Carlotta coldly, and then glanced at the manger that had aided in her fall. 

Meg knew she was not the only one who shivered as Christine turned away from the crowd and disappeared into the dark. It had been a promise. Meg was as sure of that as she was that she would see Christine on the stage again, very soon. The only mystery was where Christine would hide until then.

 

Christine’s cheek was still burning from where Carlotta had struck her, as well as from the blush of shame that she could not control. _Whore_. Each time she turned a corner she heard it again. She was shaking with anger and humiliation as Alonzo escorted her through the quiet halls, his broad shoulders filling half the corridor. He would take her all the way to the exit on the Rue De Scribe, she was sure of it. If he did that she would have to find another way in – the stables perhaps? Would Jean Paul be there? Would he tell the management that the banished soprano had walked in and disappeared into the dark? She had to get away sooner.

“I can find my way from here,” Christine told her huge guard tersely. Alonzo would not look at her. 

“I know that, Mademoiselle,” Alonzo replied, his deep voice full or regret.

“Then just let me go,” Christine entreated as they came to a dark junction of two halls, one of which lead to a flight of stairs down to the cellars. Alonzo looked around him nervously.

“I could be fired, Mademoiselle,” the huge man defended himself. Christine clenched her fists, wishing again that she could strangle Carlotta as another wave of sickening anger and shame washed over her. How many people did the woman have to make suffer?

“Alonzo, please…” she whispered then felt a familiar chill in the air.

“Let her go,” Erik’s voice seemed to come from all around them. 

Alonzo looked up and into the shadows, shocking Christine with his composure. He had obviously heard the ghost’s voice before. Perhaps he was thinking the same thing about her, since she had neither moved nor flinched at the unearthly sound. With a quick glance at Christine and a nod, Alonzo turned and left without another word. 

Christine turned down the hall where she knew Erik waited for her in the dark. She felt him watching her before she saw him, waiting for her in the shadows of the gaslights. She blushed a bit when he came in to view, knowing that he too had seen Carlotta’s attack. 

Anyone else would have run at the sight of the ghost standing so ominously in a deserted hall, so much like the first time she had seen him. She had not run then and she would not run now. As she had the first time she ever saw him, she could only look in his eyes. There was no heartbreaking sadness today, only sympathetic rage and concern.

“I should have slapped her back,” Christine told her ghost, her voice still shaking a bit. 

He seemed almost too worried to speak as he moved closer to her. Christine held her breath as he lifted a hand to her red cheek, examining the mark Carlotta had left. He touched her cheek so lightly that she could not even feel the coldness of his fingertips, yet the sensation echoed through her whole body. 

“Are you hurt?” he whispered. 

There was something ominous in his voice that made Christine almost worry for what Erik might do to someone who truly hurt her. His hand lingered close to her cheek, his eyes filling with danger.

“Just my pride,” Christine breathed nervously, feeling dizzy once again, but not with anger this time. 

Erik nodded and drew away with a movement so swift and smooth it made it seem as if he had never dared to come so close to her. He did not need to command her to follow him; they both knew the consequences of being seen. 

Christine waited for them to enter the stony reaches of the cellars before daring to speak again. 

“I’ve never hated someone like this,” she muttered, feeling sick at just the thought of Carlotta and her slurs. Part of her wished Erik would touch her again, even just to guide her through the dark, so she could push away the memory.

“You obviously haven’t known very many sopranos.” 

Christine gave a weak laugh and shook her head. 

“She will be punished, I promise you that,” Erik added and Christine felt somewhat consoled to hear him say it aloud.

“What are we going to do?” she asked as they paused to retrieve a lantern from a hidden nook in the stone.

“We?” Erik echoed, cocking his head and giving her a bemused look.

“Yes we,” Christine repeated stubbornly. “How will we stop her from performing?” 

“ _We_ are not going to stop her,” Erik answered casually and Christine’s eyes widened in fury.

“Erik, you can’t seriously mean to let her sing after that!” Erik silenced her with a meaningful look.

“Who said I was going to let her _sing_?” Christine’s anger melted instantly to fascination as a smile crept over her face. Erik’s eyes sparkled wickedly in the dark.

“Tell me more,” Christine urged as they began to descend into the dark reaches of Erik’s world once more.

Raoul’s seat in the Café de la Paix gave him a direct view of the massive façade of the Opera, but he had felt guilty for lingering so long and had therefore continued to order additional cups of coffee from the bored looking waiter. He regretted the fifth, since he now he felt like there were insects crawling under his skin. 

People had been going in and out of the Opera for hours, though most of the employees or artists he vaguely recognized did not go to the main entrance but continued towards the Rue De Scribe. Neither Christine nor anyone that he really knew had been among them, however, and he was swiftly losing heart. There had to be a better way to find her. Perhaps if he spoke to the management; Philippe was a generous patron, they would have to at least honor his name…

Raoul sprang up at the sight of a blonde figure rounding the west corner of the building. It was the dancer that knew Christine, the one who had told him where she lived and seemed so worried. He stumbled into the table and the waiter glared at him as the china and glassware clattered in the otherwise subdued café. 

Raoul threw money on the table, probably twice what he owed and ran into the street. The dancer was trudging through the brittle, two-day-old snow with a glum expression. 

“Mademoiselle!” Raoul cried rather impolitely as he rushed across the Place de L’Opera and towards the girl, alarming a few other passersby. 

She seemed quite shocked to see him, even going so far as to look if there was anyone else that he might be calling too. He reached her at last and paused to catch his breath, the cold air stinging his lungs.

“Monsieur Vicomte…” the girl uttered in confusion. Raoul batted away the formality.

“We’ve spoken before,” he excused himself hurriedly. “You’re Christine’s friend. Meg was it?” The girl nodded silently, her eyes wide. “Have you seen her? I’ve been looking for her for days…”

“Yes…” Meg replied hesitantly. 

Raoul fought the urge to embrace the small girl in joy.

“Is she alright? Where has she been?” Raoul asked fervently, his heart pounding at his first hope in days.

“She was…” Suddenly the girl looked as if she was about to cry. Raoul furrowed his brow in concern, for the dancer and Christine. “She was fired today, Monsieur! Carlotta made the managers do it!”

“What?” Raoul stared at the girl in shock as she shook her head in despair. “How could they do that? Didn’t they hear her at the gala? She’s ten times the singer that old bat is!”

“That’s why she did it, Monsieur Vicomte!” Meg protested. “She made Monsieur Richard dismiss Christine in front of the whole company!”

“Where did Christine go?” Raoul demanded, cursing that somehow his childhood love had slipped past him again. Meg looked down uncomfortably, biting her lip. “You know, don’t you? Where she’s been – where she is now?” Even with her head bent Raoul could see the blush darkening the dancer’s cheeks.

“I promised her I would not tell,” Meg muttered. 

“Meg, please,” Raoul begged and the dancer looked back at him, her clear blue eyes full of worry and guilt. “I care about her, more than she knows. I have to find her.” Raoul held Meg’s gaze, praying with all his heart she would understand and take pity on him.

“She’s with her music teacher,” Meg whispered at last. 

Raoul did not understand what had been said at first. He had not even known Christine had a music teacher and now he hated the man with more ferocity than he would have thought possible.

“Her teacher? Who is her teacher?” Raoul parroted and Meg gave a sickened sigh.

“I don’t know, Monsieur, I didn’t even know such a person existed until today!” Meg defended herself quickly.

“This teacher, would he have been in her dressing room after the performance?” Raoul asked, the connection suddenly quite clear.

“I – I don’t know,” Meg stuttered, beginning to draw back from Raoul. “I guess it’s possible.”

“And a singing teacher would know how to sing, of course,” Raoul continued, more to himself than Meg. Something else Christine had said suddenly made more sense. “An angel of music…”

“What, sir?” Meg asked, clearly fighting back panic.

“I heard a voice in Christine’s dressing room, before she vanished. She said it was easier to believe it was the angel of music,” Raoul murmured. He remembered old Daaé’s stories of the angel, of course, but what did it mean? He looked back at Meg, who had grown extremely pale. “What is it?”

“I don’t know anything about angels, Monsieur Vicomte,” she explained shakily, backing away. “But in the Opera it is rarely a good thing when one hears voices in the dark.” Meg glanced over her shoulder back at the Opera behind her. “I think I should go, sir…” Meg turned and began to leave, quickly disappearing into the busy foot traffic. 

“Wait!” Raoul began to dash after her.

“If I see Christine I will tell her you are looking for her!” Meg called back to him as he slowed, giving up the chase. 

Raoul turned despondently to begin the long march home, praying the Philippe would not request a report of his success. He did not want to tell his brother that the girl of his dreams was apparently with another man, though perhaps (he prayed) only as a student. 

There had been something about the way Meg had talked though which made him worry even more. If Christine had been fired, why would she return to this ‘angel?’ Why would a singing teacher of all things be such a secret? And why had Meg seemed so frightened when he had told her about the voice? He had noticed in his brief time there that the employees of the Opera seemed oddly suspicious. What on earth could be so terrifying in a theater of all places?

 

“Please, tell me to stop,” he begged against her hot skin. “Please.” He felt her move beneath him, as he buried his face in her thick hair, drowning in the scent of darkness and rain. There was nothing else in the world but her and her terrifying silence. 

It had only been the barest touch that had started him on the path. Erik could still feel it now: the brush of her shoulder against his as she turned the pages of their book. No, it had been the touch of her fingertips as she took an apple from his hand. Or had it just been the way she looked at him before she closed the door of her room? 

He had tried so hard not to touch her, for fear of this; fear of the sound of her cries in the darkness, fear of the inescapable knowledge that one touch was never enough. And her eyes, he could not escape from her eyes. She was watching him from the door even as he pulled her closer to him.

“Angel,” she whispered, but it was not a prayer or a sigh of longing. It was an accusation, a cruel taunt. She had wanted an angel. He tore at the fabric that separated her from him. She cried out again as he roughly pushed layer after layer away. There was no music now to hide him, only the mask.

“Tell me to stop,” he implored but she didn’t seem to hear him. 

He could feel her beneath his hands again, her skin on fire with desire, or was it fear? Could she hear him at all? Could she taste the tears? Were they hers? His hands searched for her desperately, his desire for her so painful and intense he could not even breathe. 

“Oh God, Christine, make this stop.” He wished he could shut his eyes and make the image of her disappear, of her pale, wounded body lying in his bed; her eyes at the end of the day, of her frantic struggle to escape him. Why wouldn’t she just say it? 

“Because you lied to me, Angel,” she growled and tore the mask from his face. Her scream as he fell upon her made his heart shatter.

“No!” Erik cried aloud as he escaped the nightmare, sitting bolt upright in the dark. 

He was soaked with sweat and panting, tangled in the dark sheets of his bed but blessedly alone. He raised a shaking hand to his face and confirmed that the mask was still in place. Even the simple movement reminded him of the physical evidence of his unsatisfied desire, hard and shameful in the dark. 

Each night the nightmare came faster and more intense; the dreams of hurting her, taking her at the slightest touch. Five nights it had been since she had come back, five nights of ever more painful torture. He laid back in his bed, trying to breathe and pretend he was not listening to the darkness for sounds of movement, a room away. If he could just push back those terrible dreams, perhaps he could rest or at least find a moment of relief. 

_Think of today_ , he told himself sternly fighting the urge to give in to desire too quickly. _Think of all she wanted you to teach her, all she has learned_. He took a deep breath, remembering warmly how their days had become a strange collection of lessons: in music, in English, in history and literature, and in other skills she might need, some more successful than others. 

_Remember how she laughed_. Her laughter was the most wondrous miracle of light in the gloom of his world. The sound reminded him of a smoky fire on a cold winter night. When she laughed she did not fear him, and she was so beautiful and free. 

His body began to relax and ache at the same time, as the darkness abated with memories of her. Too tired to fight it any longer, he let his hand descend. He exhaled slowly, overcome by the sensation and the memory of her smile. He had wanted her to stay to see her smile again and his wish had been granted. It was not the same smile though, not the secret smile she had saved for her angel. Erik pushed away the bitter thought, gripping harder.

_Think of her voice_ , he commanded feverishly. Their lessons were the most sublime part of their days together. He knew she felt the same. He never had felt so transported and ineffably connected to another as when he sang with her. The memory of the music was almost as seductive as the memory of her touch. The joy of singing to her, knowing there was one part of him she desired and adored without question was ecstasy. Even the music was it’s own kind of torture though, because when he sang with her it gave him hope. She could never sing like that, never express such passion and fire, if there was not some chance that she felt something more for him than pity and fear. He moved faster in the dark, latching on to the beautiful dream of her love.

He let the image of her smile and the sound of her song push away the memories of betrayal and pain. He did not have to touch her again, not while he had the smallest hope. Tomorrow he would listen to her sing for him again with all of Paris watching in awe. It would be an even greater triumph than her debut because their victory over Carlotta would make it all the sweeter. When the curtain closed, she would return to him and perhaps she would smile again – the angel’s smile. Together they would rejoice. Together they would laugh and sing in the dark. He would tell her how deeply he loved her and she would not turn away…His release came swiftly, dull and pale compared to what he had felt in her arms, but a blessed moment of peace nonetheless.

He shook his head as the foolish dream of declaring his love to her faded away. She knew he loved her and it did not matter. The performance tomorrow would be a triumph, and her return to him would at least give him enough hope to make it through another night without her. He did not dare to think of what disaster would befall them if she dared to not return. As long as she didn’t know what he dreamt of in the darkest hours of the night, she would return. As long as she believed she was safe and the madness of his desire for her remained secret, she would come back. She did not need to know how far he would go to find her.

 

Christine wondered if she had done the laces of the gown right. She had resorted to using the mirror on her vanity at last, though she had still felt like it was some sort of betrayal to Erik to even expose the shining surface to the light. She had realized after a few days in his home that there was not a single surface there that reflected anything – the lid of the piano was not polished to a reflective shine, the pipes of the organ were dull. There was barely even any glass in the house on the lake at all. It made her feel a familiar surge of pity just to think it. She took care to smooth the soft pink and ivory satin of the gown one more time before turning the mirror back to the wall. 

The dress was perhaps the most beautiful thing she had ever worn. It left her shoulders exposed, and the demure lace at the neckline was just enough to draw the slightest attention to her décolletage without being scandalous. She had added long white gloves, as was fashionable and proper. She was glad of them; they helped her feel less exposed. It had been her idea to dress as if she was attending the opera, in case she was by some mischance discovered before the time was right. 

As she stepped out of her room, she again wondered if it had been a foolish idea. The look in Erik’s eyes as he saw her confirmed it. He stood staring in the shelter of is own door, completely transfixed. She tried to hide her blush as they took each other in. 

He was dressed impeccably as well, which made her smile. Perhaps it was his height or his thinness, or his movements, but there was something so elegant about her opera ghost. Even the white of the mask did not seem out of place, paired with the stiff ivory fabric of his dress shirt. It was easier to look at Erik’s clothes than his eyes as she waited for him to speak.

“You look quite debonair,” she murmured, unable to bear the silence any longer. Her words seemed to jostle him from his reverie, but only a bit. “I hope I am not too plain a companion.”

“You couldn’t be plain if you tried,” Erik countered instantly. 

Christine bit her lip, the breathless tone of his voice making her blush even more. He shook himself from the moment, moving swiftly across the room to gather their dark cloaks. Christine noted how careful he was not to touch her as he handed her hers. She also had the sense that he too was glad she was wearing gloves. 

“Are you certain of your role?” Erik asked as he adjusted his hat to the perfect roguish angle.

“I believe I am,” Christine replied slyly. “Of course, I will only be as good as my teacher,” she added and Erik gave a wry smile.

“Remember, you can’t be seen,” he reminded her. “You must be a ghost tonight.” Christine smiled, pulling the hood of the phantom’s cloak over her dark hair.

“As long as I can see her and hear her,” she countered. “I wouldn’t miss that for the world.” 

“Nor would I,” Erik grinned in return.


	5. Sweet and Bitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlotta returns to the stage in an opera with a curse upon it.

“But Messieurs, the box is reserved!” the concierge protested again. Richard glared at her. “The ghost will not be pleased!”

“There is no ghost, Madame,” Richard spat, repeating what had become a very familiar admonition in his single week as a manager.

“There is, sir! I have seen him and heard him!” the box keeper argued, placing herself physically between the managers and the door to box five. “He had my daughter promoted to leader of her row!”

“Well, if you and your daughter wish to keep your jobs, I suggest you stand aside!” Richard barked. He felt Moncharmin quaking a bit beside him and shot him a sharp glance.

“Richard, surely it will be better to watch from our own box,” his counterpart suggested feebly. The scowl Richard gave was enough to silence him and make the livid old woman in front of them move aside. He wrenched the dark wooden door open and strode into box five. 

There was nothing about the box that seemed particularly ominous to Richard as he hung his coat and hat on the hook. The red upholstery on the walls, the well cushioned chairs and thick curtains seemed exactly like every other box. There was the column in the front left corner, ornately carved with leaves and adorned with a hollow-eyed Greek mask set between boxes five and three on the level above, but that was nothing remarkable.

“Do you feel the presence of the dead yet, Armand?” Richard grumbled as he took the seat closest to the column and the stage. Even though the performance had already begun, he did not worry about disturbing the other box holders with talk. The whole theater was practically buzzing with gossip, drowning out Fontana’s soliloquy. 

“Just wait, Firmin,” Moncharmin muttered, seating himself beside him. 

Richard glowered. He was utterly convinced now that the ghost was a fantasy or a prank, more likely than not perpetrated by devotees of Christine Daaé. It all made sense and of course Carlotta was surprisingly persuasive when given the chance. Richard surveyed the crowd, happy to see several influential patrons in their own boxes, looking marginally interested in the show. Philippe De Chagny was there, with a young man Richard believe to be his brother. The youth looked incredibly sullen and did not seem to be paying much attention to the performance. No one was really. And there was Antoine de Martin, with the two Changys…

“ _You are sitting in my box_.” Richard started at the voice, which seemed to come directly in his ear. He spun to Moncharmin, who had grown pale.

“What did you just say?” Richard demanded incredulously.

“I didn’t say anything…” Moncharmin stuttered. Richard looked slowly around the box. No one was there. Of course no one was there. “It was…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Richard commanded and set his attention to the performance again. 

The devil had appeared and was offering his bargain to Faust. As Carlotta appeared behind the screen, to entice Faust with the image of Marguerite, a smattering of applause came from high in the gallery. Carlotta had informed him that she had taken extra precautions to assure a successful performance and settle any lingering fears the patrons had about her ability to impress. Richard gave a grudging smile, wondering how much the claque had been paid.

“ _My instructions were clear, Messieurs_ ,” the voice came again, louder this time. “ _Box five is mine_.” This time Richard jumped at the sound. It was not Moncharmin’s voice, nor any voice he had ever heard before. He would have recognized something so haunting and cold.

“Richard we should go!” Moncharmin begged, grabbing his arm. 

“It is a trick!” Richard growled. Pulling his arm away in frustration.

“ _This is no trick Monsieur, you should listen to your colleague_ ,” the voice hissed. Richard stood abruptly, sending his chair tumbling.

“Now see here!” The spectators in the boxes to the left and right gave him a glare. Richard sighed angrily, trying to ignore the stares and Moncharmin’s desperate expression. He righted his chair violently and took his seat again. 

He remained tense as Act I continued, waiting for another whisper. He did not want to admit that it was not only the whispers that disturbed him, but also a strange and disconcerting _feeling_ that he and Moncharmin were not in the box alone. The act came to a blessed end without another sound from the voice however. Richard sprang from his seat the moment the curtain closed.

“Where is that blasted woman?” he demanded of no one in particular as he rushed to the door of box five. 

“I don’t think she will help…” Richard ignored his partner’s plea. The box keeper was sitting in her chair by the door, looking displeased but quite calm.

“Who came in? Tell me!” Richard commanded gruffly. The sandy-haired matron puffed herself up importantly.

“No one but you has come in or out of this box, Monsieur,” she informed him with unbridled contempt.

“You are dismissed!” Richard told the woman, almost yelling and catching the attention of several members of the audience also existing their boxes for the interval. The woman stood, gasping in offense and drawing herself up to her full meager height.

“You do not have the authority to dismiss me, sir!” the woman squawked defiantly.

“Do - do not have the _authority_?” Richard sputtered. “I am a manager! I am the only authority!”

“ _He_ is the only authority!” the woman shot back in a furious whisper, glancing about them to the patrons that were watching.

“You don’t need to do this, Firmin…” Moncharmin begged. Richard however was firmly decided.

“Get out of my sight and out of this opera, old woman, or I shall be forced to call a gendarme.” The concierge pursed her lips and said nothing as she turned, making her way through the throng that was pretending to ignore the commotion. Her expression reminded him of the way Daaé had looked days before – it held some unwavering faith that the shame was only temporary. Richard would certainly see about that.

He did not look at Moncharmin as he returned to his seat. The woman had to have been the one responsible for the voice, or at least an accomplice of whoever had produced it. There were likely many such accomplices throughout the Opera, somehow paid or employed by this “ghost” to slip notes into offices or tempt divas away from galas. Richard was determined to find each of them out and destroy them. He would leave this Phantom with nothing.

Act II began promisingly. Even Moncharmin seemed to relax as the soldier’s chorus came and went and the devil launched into his song to the golden calf. The murmurs in the audience were growing louder as the time for Marguerite’s first entrance approached. 

“ _You will not be rid of me so easily, Messieurs_.” The voice was more deadly and cold than before and Richard was too shocked to jump or become enraged immediately. 

Next to him Moncharmin was breathing with great difficulty. 

“ _Again you have dismissed someone against my wishes_.”

“We will reinstate her!” Moncharmin bleated before Richard could stop him.

“We will do no such thing!” Richard countered, forgetting himself and arguing with the ghost as if whoever it was had real power. He shook his head of the foolishness immediately.

“ _Then you leave me no choice_ ,” the whisper came from all around them and it made the hair on the back of Richard’s neck stand on end. 

Then, the laughter began, almost imperceptibly, as if it could have come from another box or the hall outside. It grew steadily louder however and the sound was absolutely chilling. Never had Richard heard laughter so cold, so incredibly dangerous and cruel. The audience began to murmur as they too heard the sound, even as the players continued on stage.

As Carlotta made her entrance as Marguerite at last, her claque broke into applause, but the moment was ruined by the sound of laughter as dark as the grave issuing from box five. Richard stood, spinning helplessly around to find the source of the sound as Moncharmin sat thunderstruck. 

Richard was beginning to panic, as he saw Carlotta give him a livid glance from below on the stage as the laughter continued over her single snippet of song in the act. The moment she exited the stage, the sound stopped. Richard fell back into his seat, cold sweat gathering on his brow.

“We should leave now,” Moncharmin suggested softly, his voice and body trembling.

“ _Oh no, Messieurs, stay, enjoy my hospitality_ ,” the ghost countered with politeness even more terrifying than his laugh. “ _I want you to have a good seat for our diva’s shining moment_.” 

Richard’s felt a stab of terror in his chest as the curtain fell.

 

Sorelli did not usually bother to listen to the singers, but tonight everyone was crowding backstage before Act III to get a good spot to hear Carlotta try to match Christine Daaé. Even the prima ballerina’s curiosity was piqued. As she exited her dressing room, which was directly across from Carlotta’s, her sense of intrigue heightened. She could hear yelling on the other side of the door, interrupted by coughing. 

“Signora, I have been assured that no one has seen Daaé in the Opera since you dismissed her, let alone tonight!” the simpering footman the woman employed was explaining as Carlotta burst from the room, ignoring Sorelli entirely.

“I want the bitch arrested if she even shows her face!” Carlotta growled then coughed again. “Nanette! More!” The diva’s poor, put-upon maid emerged from the dressing room, shaking more than usual and holding a cup of steaming liquid.

“Here, Ma – Signora! Just as you like it…” the maid whimpered as she handed the drink to her mistress. Carlotta took a long gulp and scowled.

“It tastes wrong again, you little idiot!” the soprano shrieked and struck the small girl in the face with the back of her hand, dropping the empty cup to the ground.

“Signora!” Sorelli cried indignantly and earned a glare of her own.

“Mind your own affairs, dancer!” Carlotta barked. “I’m sure your friend Philippe De Chagny is behind all of this!” 

Sorelli’s mouth dropped open in indignation. It was Philippe’s brother apparently that was taken with Christine Daaé, not the Comte, and it was generally agreed that the war against Carlota was not being waged by a mortal force. 

Sorelli was quite disappointed when the diva turned and stalked towards the stage before she could issue a retort. The little maid sank to the ground as her mistress left and began to gather the pieces of broken china, tears sparkling in her eyes.

“She should not have struck you,” Sorelli told the girl kindly as she bent to help her clean up. “One day she’ll be sorry for how she’s treated people.”

“Oh, yes she will,” the maid agreed with a passion that shocked Sorelli. 

The little thing was staring in the direction where her mistress had disappeared with a look of hatred that chilled the ballerina to the bone. Instinctively, Sorelli looked in the same direction. She was terrified when she glimpsed the shadow vanishing after the diva, but somehow not surprised. She glanced again to the little maid behind her and was more frightened when she saw that the girl was smiling.

 

Moncharmin wiped his brow nervously as Sibel completed the first aria of the act on the stage below. The charm of the music was completely lost on him tonight. Faust and Mephistopheles entered again which did nothing but remind him of the stories Robert had related to him: of death’s heads and disappearances and bodiless voices. 

He could hear Richard grinding his teeth beside him, as they both waited on edge for another voice in their ears from beyond. His pulse began to quicken as Carlotta finally took the stage to over-enthusiastic applause from her paid admirers throughout the theater. The music was pensive and ominous as she made a circuit of the stage before taking her place at the spinning wheel. She began the recitative and Moncharmin held his breath with the rest of the audience.

“ _I would truly like to know, who the young man was? Was he a grand lord and what was his name…_ ” 

Moncharmin let out his breath, immediately feeling foolish as Carlotta completed the phrase with needless ornamentation and bravado. What had he been expecting anyway? As the music grew more agitated he felt Richard relaxing beside him as well as the ballad began. 

“ _There was a King of Thule…wreahck_!” 

Moncharmin’s mouth dropped in shock, as did half the audience’s, as Carlotta’s hand flew to her mouth. The noise she had produced had been more than a crack; it was as if a toad or some other horrid creature had been set in place of her voice. The orchestra played on as Carlotta looked about, then seemed to resolve to try again. 

“ _Kept in memory of his beautiful – Wrreaaahhhhkkkk!_ ” 

The audience gasped at the horrible note, so foul that no one could ignore it. 

Carlotta clutched her throat. “ _A cup¬ – Wreaahghhhh! – etched in – Wreaaaahhhhhhhhhhhk!_ ” She kept trying but each attempt was more terrible than the last. Even the notes she could manage to sing rather than croak were strained and choked. 

The diva’s face was reddening in horror and rage as the orchestra played on, disregarding her crisis. Moncharmin felt as if he would faint, but somehow he managed to stay conscious. 

Richard had stood beside him, and had caught Carlotta’s gaze.“Go on, try again…” he mouthed desperately. 

The diva did not sing another two notes before the horrible noise repeated, like the dying cries of an animal. Carlotta stood, toppling her spinning wheel to the ground and clutching her throat in panic. 

Moncharmin could barely concentrate on it though, for at that moment the feeling of being watched – the feeling that if he turned around to the shadows of box five that he would see something _terrible_ – was so all consuming it was a wonder he could even breathe.

“ _She is singing to bring down the chandelier_!” the voice echoed from the darkness and through the audience. Carlotta gave a strangled cry that turned into another croak. 

Moncharmin’s eyes darted to the chandelier blazing above the audience, suddenly terrified that the insult was a prophecy.

“Stop! St– _Wreaahghhhh_! ” Carlotta screeched to the conductor. “I order you to – _Wreaahghhhh_! Be quiet – _Wreaahghhhh_!” Carlotta darted back and forth on the stage, looking from the audience to the implacable conductor, to the managers’ box and to the wings. She opened her mouth to speak and another hideous croak issued forth. 

Then the final blow came – someone began to laugh. It was nervous, faint laughter but laughter nonetheless. The laugh was like a match to dry kindling and in mere seconds the entire audience was howling as Carlotta continued to screech and croak on the stage.

“Get off now!” Richard bellowed down at the diva. The orchestra finally stopped playing and Carlotta stumbled off the stage as the curtain began to lower. Richard grabbed Moncharmin’s arm and dragged him from the cursed box, rushing towards the entrance to the backstage area as fast as he could.

“What do we bloody do now!?” Richard barked as they entered the wings, where absolute chaos had broken out. 

Moncharmin suddenly felt a cold calm come over him as he twisted free of Richard’s grasp.

“We inform the audience that there shall be a brief interval and the performance will begin again with an understudy in the role,” Moncharmin told his partner resolutely. 

There were already several chorus members watching them and they looked as shocked as Richard at this declaration.

“Understudy! Don’t you remember that the woman has no bloody…” Richard’s face fell in understanding. “That is impossible, the girl can’t even have got in the theater!”

“Go, make the announcement!” Moncharmin commanded with more forcefulness than he would have expected of himself. He did not wait for Richard’s acknowledgment before he turned and rushed across the stage, behind the closed curtain and towards the more remote dressing rooms. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” he heard Richard announcing faintly over the clamorous crowd. “Tonight’s performance will recommence after a brief interval…” 

He could not hear the rest of the announcement but swore he heard a strangled scream from somewhere backstage. Carlotta had obviously heard. 

He was not surprised to see the door of dressing room thirteen opening as he rounded the corner. Christine Daaé looked as calm and content as a cat as she regarded him, clad in a radiant gown of pink and white.

“You did make it,” he panted and the girl smiled knowingly. He heard the sound of others running behind him. A costumer was already on hand with Marguerite’s dress and dashed into the dressing room past Christine to begin their preparations.

“Of course, Monsieur,” Christine whispered, her eyes full of fire and shadow at the same time as she stepped back into her dressing room and began to close the door. “As I told you, there are many places in the Opera to hide.” 

 

Absolutely no one seemed willing to let Meg past as she shoved her way through the crowd backstage. She was glad the talk in the audience was loud enough to drown out the similarly raucous chorus of gossip behind the curtain. She would never be able to see Christine before her entrance this way! 

“How did she do it?” someone was asking for the hundredth time as Meg pushed past. “I heard she came in with the audience!” 

Finding Christine was far preferable to being anywhere near the chaos around Carlotta’s dressing room. The last rumor Meg had heard was that a doctor had been summoned to administer something to calm the woman’s hysterics. Someone else had said she had only stopped screaming in rage because she could no longer speak or make a sound at all.

“There she is!” someone cried and the crowd began to part, pushing Meg back with it. She jumped, trying to see over the heads and shoulders of the other company members to where Moncharmin was escorting Christine to the stage with grim determination.

“I will tell Bosarge we are to begin with the ballad,” the manager told Christine and she nodded calmly. He gave an annoyed glance to the company who watched them. “Everyone, get back to your places at once!” the manager ordered firmly. 

Meg was one of several that ignored him as he left Christine’s side.

“Christine!” Meg called, but others were also clamoring close to her, wishing her luck and congratulating her on the excellent luck that had placed her in the right place at the right time again. 

Robert Rameau, Carlos Fontana and Adele DuVal were all among the little throng, as well as a hooded devil from the final act. He was wearing the grotesque mask all the demons wore, so Meg could not tell who it was. Christine seemed to know him though, since he whispered something in her ear that made her give him a lingering look and a mysterious smile just as Meg came close enough to say something.

“Always,” Christine whispered, giving the demon another look. The tone made Meg pause and suddenly it was too late and Christine was taking her place at Marguerite’s spinning wheel. 

The audience in the theater and the company backstage grew utterly still as the music that had defeated Carlotta a quarter of an hour before began again. Meg took a step closer to the stage to better observe her friend. The recitative was more beautiful than Carlotta’s, of course.

“ _There was a King of Thule, who was faithful unto the grave_ …” 

Meg breathed a sigh of relief, and heard others do the same beside her. As the ballad continued, Meg could not help but think that Christine’s voice seemed even more beautiful tonight than her debut.

“Remarkable…” Meg turned to the source of the whisper. It was Carlos Fontana, who was watching beside Robert Rameau, Adele and, of all people, Sorelli. All of them were utterly rapt as Christine’s voice wove its spell.

“She’ll certainly have her pick of the patrons now,” Sorelli muttered in wonder.

“Especially Carlotta’s,” Adele agreed in a whisper. “No one will support the hag after that performance.” 

Meg and Adele both looked in shock to where Robert Rameau was laughing very quietly. “That girl does not need a patron,” Rameau countered as Christine finished her ballad and began the recitative of the Jewel song. Meg inched closer to the group as Adele shot Rameau a curious look. “Come on, the girl has the ghost on her side, no one can match that.”

“The ghost hated Carlotta,” Sorelli argued doubtfully. “Daaé was just lucky.”

“But the ghost told the managers that a disaster would occur if _Christine_ didn’t sing,” Rameau grinned wickedly.

“How do you know that?” Fontana hissed suspiciously.

“A friend,” Rameau shrugged. 

Sorelli and Adele both scowled and Fontana rolled his eyes, but Meg shivered. She looked around her, suddenly remembering the devil that had whispered to Christine – surely he would be watching too? Meg was strangely unsurprised when she could not find him among the shadows.

 

Christine closed her eyes as the music of the Jewel song filled her soul. Everything had gone exactly as planned and Carlotta was utterly defeated…and none of it mattered. All that mattered was she was singing for him again. She felt the music through her entire body and was amazed that she was not truly flying. The first time she had felt like everything was a dream, but tonight the music and the light was so real. 

She was aware of everything: the dozens of curious gazes from backstage, the sparkling jewels and waving lace fans in the audience, the tight scratch of her costume, the sweat on her brow through the heavy stage make-up Julianne had helped her hastily apply, the tremulous pounding of her heart. 

And still none of it mattered. He had whispered in her ear, with the stolen face of a devil yet still not daring to touch her: “Sing for me, my angel.” There was no command on earth she was more willing to obey. 

“ _Marguerite, this is no longer you, this is not your face_ ,” she sang and forgot everything. There was no pain or fear, no pity or anger – just her breath transformed into a sound she was sure could reach heaven if she just believed enough. 

“ _No, it is a princess who all will bow to as she passes by!_ ” The high C still echoed in the sparkling crystal of the chandelier as the applause exploded and washed over her. She felt like laughing and crying at the same time. She closed her eyes and breathed in the fleeting moment of absolute freedom.

 

Erik could not recall ever feeling so completely triumphant. He wanted to stay and watch the ovation that seemed to never end as Christine took a third bow on the stage. She had been even more magnificent than in her debut. Before she had sung like an angel, but tonight she had burned with heavenly fire. 

As he ducked from the protective shadows of his – now blessedly empty – box and into the carefully concealed secret entrance, he remembered it all again. The night was destined to become one of legend, not just for Carlotta’s disgrace, but also for the absolute triumph of her rival. There would be no question any longer as to whose was the most celebrated voice in Paris. 

Erik took a moment to catch a glimpse of Christine backstage, her arms overflowing with flowers and surrounded by admirers and supporters praising her performance. She seemed stronger tonight than before, as if the sadness she had faced in the intervening week had hardened her for the onslaught of attention and scrutiny behind the curtain. Erik tore himself away from the sight of her. 

He could still see her as he sped through the dark passages towards the hiding place behind the mirror, as he always saw her in the past few days, even when his eyes were closed or when he slept. She had been so beautiful, so alive, he thought as he stole through the walls and beneath the trapdoors. He had always adored the way she looked after she finished singing, but since she had seen him and discovered who her angel was, there had been something different about her breathlessness, and the flush in her pale cheeks. It made him remember all the things he tried so hard to forget each day with her and harder each night separated from her.

He reached the dressing room quickly; time enough to set a stolen rose on her vanity while keeping his eyes shut tight to avoid the terrible mirrors. Just the memory of the pain they would bring was enough to drive away the choking desire and ache that had come as he remembered her in the dark.

He barely had a moment to brood and wait before the dressing room door opened inward, letting in Christine, her dark-eyed dresser and tumult of commotion from the corridor outside. Erik’s heart stilled as Christine looked to the mirror and smiled triumphantly. He had hoped to see the secret smile he had lost, but the wicked rebellious expression was almost as sweet.

“Quite a night,” the dresser purred from behind Christine. “It certainly didn’t turn out as anyone expected.” 

Christine turned and gave the dresser a suspicious look. The black-eyed girl glanced to the mirror and ignored her mistress. 

“Now, let’s get you out of this. We don’t want you wandering away with more Opera property, do we?” 

Again Christine looked taken aback, but rather amused. 

Erik held his breath as the women disappeared behind the faded dressing screen. He was incredibly grateful for it. He could only see Christine’s eyes as Julianne removed her white shift and proceeded to help her back into the beautiful gown of white and pale pink. Even just imagining Christine’s flesh was maddening. It reminded him of how long it had been since he slept more than an hour untroubled and of the dreams and whispers that had invaded all day when he closed his eyes too long. 

An impatient knock at the door alerted him, as well as Christine and the dresser, from the silence. Erik tensed, remembering the last unwanted visitor to his pupil’s dressing room. 

“Mademoiselle Daaé!” It was both a relief and a surprise to hear Moncharmin’s muffled voice. “I should like a word!” 

Christine furrowed her brow and turned to the dresser, almost ready to say something. Without further warning the door swung open and the manager rushed in. 

“Oh thank God, you’re still here,” Moncharmin exhaled in relief as he shut the door behind him, ignoring Christine’s appalled gasp.

“Monsieur Moncharmin, I am not in a state to receive anyone,” Christine exclaimed, her eyes wide with shock. 

Moncharmin waved away her objection as Julianne began to work faster and Christine glared at him over the edge of the dressing screen.

“I simply wanted to be one of the first to congratulate you on a marvelous performance,” the manager lied breathlessly. Erik tensed again in the shadows. “And I hoped to personally escort you to the reception.” 

Erik took a tight, furious breath, so that was the game.

“The reception?” Christine parroted. To Erik’s satisfaction she seemed as unreceptive to the idea as he hoped she would be. 

“Yes, Mademoiselle, there are so many patrons who wish to extend their compliments as well.” Christine emerged from behind the screen, radiant and skeptical. Moncharmin was looking up at her expectantly. 

“I am happy to hear it, sir, but I am quite tired.” Her voice was firm. 

Erik smiled to himself. She would show this fool that she was not some carnival distraction to be paraded around for the amusement of the bourgeoisie. Moncharmin however seemed unfazed.

“Mademoiselle, many of these patrons were great admirers of Carlotta, and were understandably quite upset her sudden…illness,” the manager explained carefully. Christine’s eyes narrowed. “Happily, they seem quite taken with you now. Unhappily however, their support can be fickle.” There was an unmistakable edge to the man’s voice. As Christine’s face began to harden in understanding, Erik regretted the mercy he had previously shown this simpering fool. “As you have learned, an opera does need more than music to survive.” 

Christine frowned and turned from the manager. She did not speak as she took a seat at her vanity. Erik watched the emotions play across her face as she touched the red rose, tender, thoughtful and resigned.

“I suppose I don’t have much of a choice then, do I?” Christine muttered with a furtive glance to the mirror. She was apologizing and Erik felt it like a blow.

“Think of it as a performance,” Moncharmin suggested weakly and gave a little shrug. The look of contempt Christine gave the manager as she turned mirrored Erik’s own feelings perfectly. Christine gave her dresser a nod as she reluctantly took Moncharmin’s offered arm.

“Won’t you need a wrap, Mademoiselle?” Julianne ventured. Christine paused and looked directly at the mirror. Anyone else would have thought she was simply checking her reflection.

“No, I will come back here after I am done with this chore,” she promised. It did little to stem Erik’s disappointment and annoyance, but it was something. He did not stay to watch the dresser put out the gaslights. 

He cursed the managers as he made his way to the secret corner of the flies where he could watch Christine, bitterly remembering the last time she had strayed into the patron’s world as he followed her in the dark.

 

Christine braced herself as Moncharmin guided her into the packed _salon du danse_. The sudden explosion of applause did little to calm her nerves or stem her sense of discomfort. Christine looked down, blushing, which only compounded the sense of embarrassment – they would think she was blushing because she was some demure, shy little thing and not because she was unhappy having so many eyes upon her off the stage. She had no music, ghost or angels to protect her from their hunger now.

“What a surprise,” Adele intoned, sarcastic and seductive as she emerged from the crowd on the arm of her cold-eyed patron. “I thought you would have other places to be.” 

Christine glared at her friend before shooting Moncharmin an equally unhappy look.“I was convinced otherwise,” Christine muttered, dropping the manger’s hand.

“Well, you seem quite capable of handling the onslaught, Mademoiselle,” Moncharmin excused himself quickly. “I must find Richard.” The manager gave a little bow and departed.

“Funny little man, isn’t he?” Antoine drawled, as he surveyed Christine slowly from head to toe. She did her best not to squirm and chose instead to admire Adele’s stunning red dress. “And you’re the one Raoul is so found of?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, sir,” Christine muttered, looking away uncomfortably. She had hoped to go longer than a minute without mention of one the person she was simultaneously most anxious and most terrified to see.

“Now, don’t look so glum, my dear,” Adele chided, hooking a finger under Christine’s chin. “Smile. If you need help doing it just think of Carlotta’s wonderful performance.” 

Christine grinned automatically. Her friend did indeed know how to cheer her up.

“It was indeed her finest hour.” Just the thought of it made Christine want to start laughing uncontrollably again. “I shall never forget that.”

“I knew you were watching!” The exclamation made Christine jump. She spun to look down at Meg’s surprisingly disapproving face, still trying to suppress a smile. “You never would have missed that.” 

“You make it sound like I knew something would happen,” Christine defended herself without much conviction as Meg continued her best attempt at a righteous glare. 

What Meg knew or suspected was likely not even close to the truth of course. No one would guess that she had not only known what awaited Carlotta, but had assisted in almost every particular of the plan, from the delivery of the right drug and payment to her poor little maid to the magnification of Erik’s magic from her hiding place off stage. She had known it all and relished it. 

“It just all seems…odd,” Meg frowned. 

Christine looked from Meg to Adele and Antoine, noting with discomfort how each was staring at her like she was some curiosity. She wished from something to pull over her exposed shoulders or, even better, to disappear into the shadows with Erik as quickly as possible. At least when he stared at her it thrilled her as much as it frightened her. 

“Well, have you seen him yet?” Meg asked cheerfully, her suspicion evaporating.

“Seen who?” Christine was not sure if Meg had been talking before the question.

“Your Vicomte,” Meg sighed impatiently. “He’s been looking for you for all over!” Christine again found herself evading Meg’s hopeful eyes and Adele’s knowing smile. Even as she did so she felt a familiar chill. Somewhere unseen, Erik was watching her as well. 

“I’m sure he has better things to do than that,” Christine muttered and turned away from the little crowd rather rudely. 

She ignored Meg’s distant huffing as she meandered through the glittering crowd. She could not focus on much however. Julianne had lanced the gown tighter than she was accustomed to and it was hard to breathe. That too made her mind turn to Erik. She brushed against someone and asked herself again how long it had been since he had even dared to come close to her, let alone touch her. She smiled weakly at the patrons and subscribers that complimented her performance, all the while trying to ignore the stares and whispers. 

“Mademoiselle Daaé, a lovely performance,” Gerard Gabriel complimented her with a smile. He was standing with Mercier and LaRoche, who also nodded and smiled. Christine nodded politely in appreciation and tried to focus.

“Indeed,” Mercier agreed listlessly. “One would think that Carlotta’s…indisposition would be the talk of the Opera, but the only thing I hear is praise for you.” 

“And why not? She was fantastic.” 

Christine spun to face the source of the breathless praise. Suddenly the world was clear and immediate again. Raoul was grinning from ear to ear, his eyes sparkling with pride and admiration. Christine could not keep a shy smile from her face.

“I did not think you would be here, Monsieur Vicomte,” Christine demurred. 

“I almost didn’t come. When I heard you had been dismissed, I was appalled, but Philippe dragged me tonight…I’m certainly glad he did.” 

Christine smiled again at the utter sincerity in his face. She noted the directors moving in another direction the corner of her eye, leaving her and Raoul almost alone.

“I meant,” Christine paused, wondering if it was wise to be honest with her friend. His hopeful face made it so hard to lie though. “I’m surprised you’d want to find me again, after the way I’ve treated you the last few times we’ve met. I was unforgivably rude.”

“It would take more than rudeness to get rid of me, old friend,” Raoul countered with an earnest grin than made her smile again.

“I am glad you came,” Christine admitted softly as Raoul bowed to take her hand and give it a chaste kiss. She felt another blush warm her skin and did not care who saw.

“Have they any idea what happened to that awful woman?” Raoul asked innocently. “I don’t think I should have started laughing at her, but after what I heard she did to you…”

“No, they have no idea,” Christine cut him off quickly.

Of course anyone who knew the legends was saying it was the ghost yet for some reason, she didn’t ever want Raoul to know she had been the Phantom’s accomplice. She had taken such joy in Carlotta’s downfall, yet that seemed somehow like another girl. 

She felt as if the girl reflected so beautifully in Raoul’s eyes was a completely different person from the one Erik knew in the shadows of the Opera. That other person was the one who entertained such dangerous dreams, the one who longed to discover what waited for her in the shadows of Erik’s eyes. The girl she was now, the girl in white that blushed and smiled, was still innocent. Even as she lied to her friend, it did not feel like she was really lying.

“I’ve been trying to find you all week,” Raoul reminded her bashfully, bringing her back to the moment. “I’ve been quite worried for you.” He was still holding her hand, Christine realized, as if he was afraid she would take a fright and fly off without warning.

“Worried?” Christine stuttered. 

“You seemed so…sad the last time I saw you. And then it was so hard to find you, and I heard about your dismissal and I still couldn’t, find you, I mean. And your friend Meg said such odd things.”

“I’m fine.” That did feel like a lie. Raoul frowned and she felt another chill. She was absolutely sure Erik was watching them and it suddenly terrified her.

“Christine, you were so radiant on that stage, everyone saw it,” Raoul went on, his face earnest and open. “That’s the girl I remember, the girl I…”

“Ah, I told you we would find them in the same place!” A jovial voice interrupted Raoul. 

Christine withdrew her hand from Raoul’s in instant shame, as Richard and Raoul’s handsome brother strode towards them. She tried to compose herself, incredibly happy for the interruption. How sure was she that Erik could only see her and not hear what was being said over the din?

“Right you were, Monsieur Comte,” Richard grumbled. He was clearly having a disappointing night.

“Raoul, have you met Monsieur Richard, one of the new managers of the Opera?” Philippe inquired politely. R

ichard extended his hand to the younger man and, to Christine’s shock, Raoul refused it.

“You are the one responsible for Mademoiselle Daaé’s dismissal, are you not?” Raoul demanded defiantly. 

“Well, there were circumstances beyond my control…” Richard huffed.

“Carlotta demanded he do it or she would take all her patrons and their money away,” Christine explained flatly for him. He gave her an annoyed glare, which she happily ignored in favor of taking in Raoul’s clear indignation. 

“Christine’s is the finest voice in Paris, everyone is saying it,” Raoul countered. “Surely that is worth more than a few patrons.” Richard stared at Raoul, unable to argue. “And we are patrons as well, aren’t we, Philippe?”

“Indeed, brother. Monsieur Richard was just reminding me of that a moment ago,” Philippe confirmed with a bemused smile. Raoul swallowed and straightened his posture bravely.

“Then he will of course trust us when we pledge to raise out contributions to compensate for any loss of patronage due to Carlotta’s departure.” 

Christine wondered if the look of shock on her own face was comparable to that on Richard’s.

“Of course, Monsieur Vicomte…” Richard muttered, his mouth and eyes still hanging wide in awe. 

Christine looked to Philippe, waiting for him to tell his brother this was madness. The elder noble only shrugged.

“It seems my brother is destined to become an even greater lover of the arts than me,” Philippe sighed and Christine noticed Raoul visibly relax. “Come Monsieur, let us leave these young people to celebrate.” Richard glanced at Raoul in disbelief again as Philippe guided him away. 

Christine felt as if there was no air in the room again. Even if Erik had not heard, the rumor would travel to his ears within the minute in so dense and unscrupulous a crowd. Raoul was staring at her sheepishly, awaiting her approval.

“Raoul…” she breathed, trying to compose herself. “I hope you do not think that you can buy me.” That was what Erik would want to hear, if he was listening, wasn’t it?

“Oh God, no!” Raoul exclaimed and took Christine gently by the arm, guiding her farther from the crowd and in to a corner of the salon. “I told you: you seem so happy when you sing. You’re so full of – of _light_. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. I just wanted to make sure you could keep doing it without those bureaucrats interfering.” 

Christine closed her eyes, unable to bear the look of honest devotion in her friend’s eyes. 

“Raoul,” she breathed, “always rushing in to rescue me without another thought.” She opened her eyes and smiled at him despite herself. A more serious expression darkened his handsome features.

“I know there is…” he began to confess with difficulty, “someone else. I wish you would tell me who he is, or what he has offered you that I cannot.” Christine bit her lip and looked away, suddenly ashamed of her secrets. “I was trying to tell you before: you are so happy on the stage but when you come off, you’re so sad. I cannot help but think that it is because of whoever it is that you’ve…been with…”

“Raoul, stop,” Christine ordered with sudden conviction. The thought of Raoul seeking Erik out filled her with cold dread. His face fell as he regarded her grim expression. “We shouldn’t be talking like this here,” she added, glancing to the crowd and wishing she knew where Erik was hiding to observe her.

“No one is listening,” Raoul protested. Christine felt gooseflesh rise on her skin. 

“In the Opera, there is always someone listening,” she whispered. She had already said far too much. “I have to go.” 

She turned from him to leave and he caught her by both arms. He had touched her more easily and often in a few minutes than Erik had in three days, she thought absently as she felt the warmth of his hands through the fabric of her gloves.

“Christine, please,” Raoul begged, undeterred. “I don’t want to lose you again.” Christine blushed furiously as she pried herself from his grasp, noting that there were other sets of eyes regarding them. What would the rumors about her be tomorrow?

“I am not yours to lose, Monsieur Le Vicomte,” she told him coldly.

“Christine, I have to see you again,” he tried again, his face still hopeful over his dejection. “Outside of the Opera perhaps?”

“No,” Christine shook her head. 

“No you will not or no you cannot?” Christine looked desperately through the crowd, hoping to find some familiar face to turn her attention to. All she saw were curious stares and cold smiles. 

“You will see me on stage,” Christine evaded the terrible question and turned away from Raoul’s heartbroken face. She ignored the whispers and glares from the managers as she moved swiftly towards the door. She had certainly done her part in filling the Opera coffers tonight, though the very thought of Raoul made her head spin with guilt and worry.

The quiet, musty dark of the Opera halls was a blessed relief. She knew she had not done enough to keep Raoul from looking for her again. She hadn’t wanted to. The memory of him and the way she felt so girlish and pure in his eyes was too tempting. Even though she knew he only wanted what any other patron wanted from a diva, it was such a lovely dream. There was no harm in it, was there? The thought made her shiver as she drew closer to her dressing room. Of course there was harm. She had forced herself to leave because she knew it was dangerous for Raoul to even know her now.

She hesitated at the door. The girl who Raoul knew and cared for was screaming inside her to turn back, to escape while she could from the shadows. Raoul had been right – it was not that she would not see him; she could not. Her dread of Erik, of what she knew and feared he was capable of had brought her back to the dark as surely as the managers had bullied her into that party. Her pity and desire seemed so pale compared to the fear and it made her suddenly furious. 

Christine stepped into the dark dressing room. The air was cold and pregnant with menace. She shuddered as she retrieved her dark cloak from its hook without any light to aid her, anger, disappointment and worry still washing through her heart. Raising the hood, she walked resolutely towards the mirror and was not surprised to find it was already opened. 

She met Erik’s glowing eyes where they waited in the dark passage. Christine took a halting breath, every rational sense in her reacting to the sense of anger and danger vibrating around the ghost as he raised his lantern in the dark. The look of suffering in his eyes drove every other feeling away.

“I told you I would come back,” she affirmed timorously. “I always will,” she whispered. She prayed he would believe her even as part of her cursed that it was so true.

 

Shaya wanted to hear the story again, but was wary of accosting another employee so soon. Perhaps he could go to the port cocherie and speak to a patron, though they always were more difficult to corner. He would certainly like to find a manager and tell them that he had warned them. Shaya caught sight of a two females, one very small and one with white hair, exiting on to the Rue de Scribe. 

“Madames,” Shaya called, politely getting their attention as he emerged from the shadows. The women started, exhibiting the typical jumpiness of Opera employees. “Apologies, I only wished to speak to someone about the performance. I heard it was quite…eventful.” 

The women regarded him suspiciously, especially the younger, small one. Shaya was rather certain she was one of those that had heard stories of him mixed in with the legends of the ghost.

“That’s one way of putting it,” the older woman answered slowly. 

“The story I was told – they said Carlotta started singing like a toad?” Shaya ventured.

“The ghost gave her what she deserved,” the white haired woman countered. The small one was still silent beside her and seemed to have started shaking. 

“What about the one who replaced her, Christine Daaé? Did you hear her sing?” Shaya doubted these women would have been able to hear anything but rumors, but it was worth a try.

“A few bars, when I had to collect some costumes,” the elder answered rather proudly. “I hear they’ve taken to calling her ‘the Angel,’ and I can’t blame them! Never heard such a voice in all my years!”

“The ghost did it for her!” Shaya and the older woman turned to the small, shivering girl in surprise. “She was one of us, sir, a costumer, she came off the street with nothing…but then she saw him and everything started happening for her. She got in the chorus and now the ghost made Carlotta disappear for her!” 

Shaya regarded the girl with new interest. She was the first to confirm what he had suspected, that Christine had been connected to Erik for some time.

“Out of the way!” a voice bellowed as a large group of people began to emerge from the stage door. The throng came in between Shaya and the women. 

There were at least half a dozen people, mostly household servants from the look of them, fawning over a figure who was struggling to get back into the Opera. A man who gave Shaya the impression he was a doctor was fighting the hardest to subdue the figure, who Shaya could now see was a woman with wild, dark hair and furious eyes.

“Let me back in!” the woman rasped. The sound of her voice was strangled and terrible to hear. “I will kill her! I’m going to kill the little witch and her bloody ghost!” 

“Madame, please!” The doctor protested as the coterie of servants endeavored to push the hysterical woman towards a carriage that had just arrived. “There is no ghost!”

“He did this to me! Him and Christine Daaé! I will destroy her! Let me go!” Carlotta – and Shaya was sure now the woman was the recently disgraced diva – tried to scream, though her voice made it into a much thinner and more painful sound. “I saw her! I saw her laughing! And I heard…” the woman was not allowed to continue, the doctor had pressed a cloth over her nose soaked with something that rendered her almost instantly unconscious. 

Shaya and the women stared together as the servants distastefully lifted their mistresses into the carriage. A few had to walk behind as the carriage rumbled away. The white haired woman beckoned the smaller one to follow as they turned to head the opposite way down the Rue de Scribe from the entourage.

“Well, you heard her,” muttered the older woman over her shoulder to Shaya as the two faded into the night.

“Yes, I did,” Shaya muttered, wondering against his will if he had been wrong to fear for Christine Daaé.


	6. Fables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has stories they like to hear and tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger warnings for discussion of suicide and non-con. Also violence/blood to a small extent.

The darkness moved around them as if it was alive, retreating from the meager glow of Erik’s lantern like children before a monster. They were almost at the lake and still Erik had not been able to utter even a word. The pain and rage tearing at his heart was so horrible and black, it was all he could do to keep breathing. 

How could she…

“Erik, please talk to me…” Christine’s voice came from behind him in the shadows as she rushed to keep up with him.

“I think you have done quite enough talking for the both of us tonight,” he answered through gritted teeth. He felt as if he was running, desperate to escape the memory of what he had seen while spying on the beautiful world he could never enter.

“Erik, I had to,” Christine protested in a small, worried voice.

“I understand what you _had_ to do,” Erik spat, rounding on her as they reached the edge of the lake. She stumbled back from him and gave his heart another stab. “I hate it, but I understand it. What I don’t understand is how you…” He saw her in his mind: smiling at _him_ , blushing as _he_ Don’t,” Erik snapped over his shoulder and Christine recoiled. “I don’t want to hear excuses for that boy…” 

Christine’s expression hardened in the soft candlelight. “His name is Raoul. I knew him when I was younger. He was…he _is_ my friend.”

“I don’t care who he is,” Erik growled back, spinning to face Christine. She had removed her cape as well, exposing him to the torture of her beauty once more. “He is one of _them_. He’ll buy you and use you and destroy you. People like him don’t care about anyone but themselves.”

“People like him?” Christine echoed. “He is not like that…”

“Do not tell me he’s different,” Erik barked back. “They think they can ruin lives and never pay the toll; that they can hate and a destroy with impunity. They are all selfish and cruel. Whatever he’s said to make you think otherwise that is a lie.” 

“And I should never forgive someone who has lied to me?” She said it quickly, almost automatically and Erik fell back a step. “And I should ignore what I know about him and listen to what everyone else says instead?” 

Erik turned away from her, sickened and reeling. The image of them together swam back into his mind, and somewhere he could hear the sound of her screams.

“How could you look at him that way…” he whispered, steadying himself against the piano.

“This isn’t about them, whoever ‘they’ are, is it? It’s about him.” 

Erik wondered why it had taken her so long to realize. Did she believe him such a monster that he would not even be hurt by her flirtations? 

“When I went to one of those parties before, it was because of him you were so angry,” she continued, more to herself than to Erik. “And when he came to my dressing room, he was the reason you took me that night, wasn’t he? If he hadn’t been there…” 

Erik turned to her, knowing the answer was clear in his eyes. She stared at him, shock and hurt mixing with the anger on her face. 

“You’re jealous of him.” 

“Of course I’m jealous of him,” Erik replied, his voice low and dangerous, advancing on her. “He is perfect: The perfect face, the perfect title, the perfect suitor. Everything you could ever want.”

“Don’t presume to know what I want,” Christine shot back indignantly, holding her ground. “And how can you be jealous of a suitor when you won’t even _touch_ me?” 

Erik froze. Did she realize how dangerous what she had just said was? 

Her face softened slightly. “Erik, I am here with you right now, not with him, doesn’t that mean anything?”

“You mean to say you’re not here because of fear, not even a little?” He took another step, coming within inches of her, closer than he had been in days. 

She caught her breath but remained stubbornly still, staring into his eyes. 

“You mean to say if I touch you, you won’t shiver or shrink?” The feel of her warmth was maddening.

“Erik…” she whispered warily as he lifted a hand to her delicate neck. 

She did shiver as he touched her, caressing her throat slowly, fighting back the thought of how easy it would be to choke her. He pushed his long fingers into her hair and loosened it roughly from the comb that held the mass in place. With his other hand he caught her wrist, ignoring the screams in his head. She swallowed and shook again as he pulled her closer to him, so their bodies barely touched. 

“Of course I’m jealous of him,” he breathed dangerously in her ear, pushing her head to the side. 

He inhaled her scent. It was like a drug driving back every thought or desire but to touch her again. 

“You would never look at him like this,” he accused, each word an effort as he forced her to look in his eyes. He knew the look so well. He saw it every night as she lingered at her door: the faintest desire overcome by fear, though tonight the fear sparkled with anger. “You smiled at him.” 

Erik released her hand, fully expecting her to push him away, as his fingertips hesitantly touched her lips. 

“You smiled at him…the way you used to smile at me.” 

He leaned closer but her eyes had turned to stone.

“I never smiled that way at you,” Christine whispered with livid sincerity. 

He grabbed her shoulder roughly as rage roared back to life inside him, ready to join with the desire screaming for her in his blood. He was ready to be the monster she clearly knew he was. His hand tightened in her hair and she winced in pain. 

“Erik…stop…” she whimpered. Erik fell back, his horror taking control for an instant.

“Get out,” he snarled, nearly doubled over with want and fury. “Get out of my sight, now!” he screamed when she did not move, still unable to banish the sound of her screams and the memory of her scent from his mind. 

He only heard her door slam angrily as he stumbled to his own bedchamber. He tore off his smothering jacket and vest, hating the ridiculous costume.

He had to make it stop. He had to protect her, somehow. He had to drive back the pain of remembering her smile at the boy, the pain that was crushing his heart with each breath. 

She would never look at him like that; she would never smile at him again. If he could just remember that it would not hurt so much. Erik stood straight, trying to breathe and prolong the moment of clarity and resolve. 

He stared at the dark curtained wall of his chamber, steeling himself for the punishment. He had to do it. He had to remember. There was only one pain more terrible than this, and it would make him remember who he was.

 

Christine tore furiously at the buttons and laces of her dress, cursing the satin and frills and fighting the competing urges to fall down crying or tear back into the other room and scream at Erik. 

_How dare he be so angry with her_! Just for looking at someone else! He was not her angel any more; she owed him no devotion or fealty. 

She pushed her dress to the floor and kicked it away. She couldn’t even pretend that being there was a real choice, not when he scared her like that and reminded her of everything that horrified her. She pulled on her long red velvet robe and tried to catch her breath. Had she really expected anything different from him…

Christine spun towards her door at the sound of a crash. She listened in sudden terror, her heart pounding, as the sound came again, this time accompanied by an agonized cry. She tore into the main room. It was empty. Another crash and cry came as Christine burst into Erik’s chamber. 

The sight that met her eyes was too awful to understand. Erik was unmasked, his hideous face twisted with rage, but that was not the horrible part: his hands were covered in blood and shards of mirror surrounded him. 

He moved again, raising his mangled hands and Christine saw at last where he had hidden the mirror hidden behind the curtains.

“Erik! Stop!” Christine cried as she launched herself between him and another blow to the mirror. He groaned as she caught his wrists, his eyes wild and unfocused. “Erik! Please stop this!”

“I have to see!” he protested feverishly, trying to wrench himself free. 

She pushed him back, forcing him to look at her. “Erik, please! It’s me! It’s Christine!” 

He froze and his eyes widened in horror, seeing her at last. “Oh God, no, please…” he moaned, tearing his hands from her and covering his face as he stumbled back. “Please don’t look…”

“Erik, you’re hurt.” She grabbed his hands again and pulled him away from the wreckage of the mirror. 

“No, please,” he breathed desperately, turning his head to hide his face as much as possible.

“Erik, I’ve seen before and I am still here now, just _trust me_.” 

He grew instantly still and looked back at her, blinking. Christine pushed him on to the floor, leaning him against the bed, without any more resistance. She grabbed his beautiful opera jacket from beside them and pressed it firmly into his hands, holding them together tightly. He looked down, his lank black hair falling to shield his face as he hid again, 

“Do you have bandages or am I going to have to tear up one of your pretty white shirts?”

“In the storeroom…under the candles,” Erik told her haltingly.

“Stay here. Keep pressure on your hands and _do not move_ ,” she ordered in a tone even she found impressively unquestionable. 

She rushed to the storeroom, pushing down panic as she grabbed the bandages, as well as rags and a brown bottle with a smell she recognized. She added a bowl of water to her supplies as quickly as she could. 

She was surprised that Erik had actually obeyed her and did not seem to have moved. He was looking at where his mask lay, several feet from him of the floor as Christine knelt beside him.

“Can I…” 

“No,” she refused, swallowing the answer they both wanted. “There is blood on your face, let me make sure you’re not hurt there and then you can put it back on.” Christine looked away, concentrating on dipping a rag in water and a pouring the chemical on another. 

“I don’t want to see you look at me,” he protested again, barely a whisper.

“Then close your eyes.” 

Christine watched as he obeyed. They both took deep breaths for strength as she carefully reached for his face. It was as awful as she remembered, perhaps even worse without the beauty of his eyes to distract her from the hideous tangle of his features and the sunken hole that was all he had for a nose. She tried to concentrate on the blood instead. Erik flinched when the cold cloth touched his skin. 

“Trust me,” she consoled as she wiped the first smear of red away, intent on keeping her hands from shaking. He did not relax but he did not pull away again as she continued. After what must have seemed like an eternity to Erik, she finished. 

“There’s one cut, but it’s not deep,” she explained, pressing the rag against the wound and pushing back her revulsion. “It’s already stopped bleeding.” She switched to the second rag and dabbed the cut gingerly. Erik winced. “I’m sorry, you don’t want it to get infected.”

“Oh no, we wouldn’t want a scar…” he muttered, no humor in his voice.

“Let me see your hands,” Christine commanded. 

His eyes opened hesitantly again as she pulled his right hand from the bloody jacket and towards her. She hoped he would not see her relief to look away. Christine breathed in sharply in sympathy as she surveyed the cuts, most of them on his knuckles, some on his palms. 

“Erik, why did you do this?” she asked at last as she began to clean the wounds.

“I had to remember,” he answered, his voice pained. “I had to keep you safe.”

“Keep me safe?” Christine echoed, looking up at him without thinking and making him shudder and turn away, hiding behind his hair once more. “From you?”

“Of course from me,” he confirmed despondently. “I keep dreaming…of hurting you. I can’t even close my eyes without seeing it. I am so afraid of not being strong enough. You look at me and I am drowning, like I will never breathe again if I don’t touch you. But I’m afraid that if I do touch you, I won’t be able to stop. I’ll destroy everything. Again.”

“Erik…” Christine sighed. She had been so selfish and foolish to think it was simply that he did not want to touch her.

“I had to look. I had to remind myself of who I am,” Erik continued miserably, “of what you see when you look at me. I had to remember why I see that fear in your eyes every night…of why you would never let me touch you again.” 

Christine took a shaking breath, keeping all her attention on the deepest cut in Erik’s palm. 

“You did this to punish yourself, because you think I’ll never…” she whispered. “Never be with you willingly.” She retrieved a bandage and carefully began to wrap his thin hand as he nodded.

“I can’t bear to hurt you again,” he confessed, his beautiful voice strained with suffering. 

Christine’s hands shook as she tore another bandage and placed it carefully around a long finger. Every time she looked at his hands she remembered how it had felt when he touched her. She braced herself. She could not bear causing him more pain either. 

“Erik, I am afraid of you, I cannot lie and tell you I’m not,” she began timidly as she turned her attention to his left hand, which was hurt far worse than the right. “But at night, when I look at you and I see the want in your eyes, or when I am alone with my thoughts and the memory of you…it is what I feel, what I want, that frightens me so much more.” She cringed as she removed a shard of glass from his hand. Erik remained absolutely still. “I am frightened, not that you will touch me again, but because I know…I will not stop you if you do.” She pressed the rag to his palm as she fumbled for more bandages, her entire body tense and aware. 

“I am frightened because I am not ready to let it happen yet. I don’t know what will change or what it will mean or how it might hurt, and the very fact I want it scares me. I remember how it felt in your arms and I feel wicked and wanton but so…empty.” She trembled as the truth tumbled clumsily from her lips. 

“I try to make it stop too. I try to remember the way you scare me or imagine your face. I remember the lies. I remember your rage and I think of the darkness I see in you. I try to hate you…but it never works.” She listened to the sound of his breath as she placed the last bandages on his hand, wishing she were brave enough to look up into his eyes. “Every night, I dream of you.” 

She began to turn away but his grip suddenly tightened on her hand and she looked back at once. His eyes were full of trepidation.

“Christine, I…” She looked away, blushing furiously. It was somewhat comforting that he was holding her hand as tightly as a frightened child, as lost as she was.

“You must not scare me like that again,” she muttered, stroking his bandages.

“I’m sorry. I should not have been so angry…”

“No, not that,” she stopped him, reflexively looking up into his unmasked face then away, back to their hands. “I meant you must promise not to hurt yourself like this, ever again. What if you had hurt yourself so you could not play? How would I hear your music? You know how useless I am at instruments…” 

He did not laugh, but continued to stare at her through his dark hair.

“I promise.” The whisper was perhaps the most heartfelt words she had heard him speak since she had learned who he was. 

She turned slowly, keeping his hand tight in hers as she awkwardly retrieved his mask from among the ruins of the mirror. She caught his eyes and hesitated as she returned it to him. She was accustomed to seeing him look at her with desire, or curiosity, even with wonder, but never before had he looked at her with such clear, breathtaking love.

“You…” the words caught in her throat. She could not tell him to leave it off. She was not brave enough for that yet, especially with such adoration shining in his eyes. He took the mask from her hand before she could finish and replaced the shield of white with less grace than usual, his bandaged hands not helping in the effort. “You need rest,” she amended, standing abruptly as Erik released her hand. 

He rose and sat on the edge of the bed, clearly exhausted. His beautiful dress shirt was torn at the collar and stained with his blood, Christine noted. She found a clean shirt easily in his great wardrobe and avoided her gaze as she handed it to him.

“I don’t think I can,” he murmured, with something like shame, not taking the garment.

“What on earth do you mean?” 

“I told you, I keep dreaming…” he answered, the horror of those dreams evident in his voice and the pained tension in his posture. “I don’t think I’ve slept more than an hour straight since…since that night.” 

Christine looked down, the extent of how he had suffered without her knowing smarting again. He took the shirt from her at last and she turned, to give him privacy, though she was tempted not to. 

“Even before that, I never really slept. It was the worst when you were gone. When you were here, in the Opera, it was better; when I could watch you,” he continued sadly. 

Christine turned back, drifting closer as she watched him as he struggle to button the dark shirt. “Here, you’re useless,” she muttered, sitting beside him and taking over the task. She blushed again at the look of tired amazement in his eyes. 

“I miss it,” Erik told her almost inaudibly. “I miss watching you. I miss knowing that you are safe.” He sighed heavily; the weight and weariness of so many lonely nights clear in his eyes. “Just being so close to you, made it…peaceful, for a while.”

“Then I’ll stay with you here.” She was sure she was even more surprised that she had said it than he was. He cocked his head in astonishment. “You have to sleep.”

“You – you can’t…” he protested, his eyes wide in disbelief as she moved fully onto his bed. She shrugged and shook her head. 

“No more arguing tonight,” she stated with gentle resolve as she laid her body down above the sheets, keeping absolute focus on him as she settled onto the pillow. “Lay down,” she ordered, ignoring the increased look of confusion and panic in his eyes. 

Slowly and cautiously he lay down across from her, keeping a careful, chaste distance between them. “You shouldn’t do this,” he attempted again as he set his head on the pillow, his eyes locked to hers. “What if I…”

“I trust you,” she cut him off and his eyes narrowed in curious concern.

“You shouldn’t.” His voice was small and scared. 

Christine took a deep breath. Every reasonable part of her said he was right. The girl she wanted to be – the one who lived a life of virtue in the light, who Raoul still cared for – would never share a bed with a man like Erik. She would never have let Erik touch her in the first place. But in the dark, that girl did not exist. 

Hesitantly, her hand crossed the distance between them, sliding over the sheet until it reached his, where it rested near his face. They both tensed when she touched him, but she did not draw back. 

“I trust you,” she repeated, watching the fear fade from his eyes as her hand rested gently on his. He sighed and at last seemed to relax. The room was dark enough that they still retained a slight glow at the edge of his blue eyes. She could not imagine what it was like for him: to be so afraid, to suffer so deeply at the sight of his own face, to have been so alone for so long. 

Softly, she began to hum deep in her throat, the old melody he had sung to her as he watched her from the shadows. Perhaps no one else on earth had ever heard it but them. She had never known what the words were, but she had always understood what it meant.   
_Sleep, my angel, and dream of me. Hear my voice in the dark of the night, and know I am here with you._

She watched his eyes fall closed at last as she sang, her heart pounding and tears staining her cheeks. Even as her own exhaustion washed over her, she kept up the song, quiet and breathless, reaching out to his shattered heart in the darkness.

 

“You should give up, little brother,” Philippe sighed boredly, leaning against a marble statue in the emptying salon. Raoul shook his head in frustration.

“She can’t have gone again,” Raoul repeated. “No one saw here leave the building.”

“It’s a very large building, Raoul,” Antoine reminded him derisively as he strode towards the brothers, his buxom soprano hanging contently on his arm. “She got in without anyone seeing her either, or didn’t you hear about that?” Raoul glared at his friend and brother.

“I must find out what happened to her, I’ll wait as long as it takes,” Raoul huffed petulantly. He knew it was a useless declaration, but it at least made him feel better to say it.

“Oh no, Monsieur Vicomte, you don’t want to be here alone after dark,” Antoine’s singer purred with a twinkling smile. 

“Oh yes, of course, we don’t want the Phantom dragging our poor boy down to the depths,” Philippe laughed as he pulled Raoul from the great mirrored room and began to guide him towards the patron’s entrance. Antoine smirked behind them and his songbird gave a laugh. 

“Phantom? What on earth are you talking?” Raoul demanded crossly, very tired of feeling like he was the last to know or understand anything. “You people don’t actually think this place is haunted?” 

“We don’t think it, we know it,” the singer answered with a grin as they moved quickly through the gilded halls. “Everyone in the Opera believes in the ghost. You heard him laughing at Carlotta, didn’t you? Before he made her show her true colors.”

“You think a – a _ghost_ made that happen?” Raoul balked and saw Philippe roll his eyes.

“He did make it happen,” the woman argued cheerfully. “Which do you think meant more to our new diva? A few extra francs from you, or the vengeance of the phantom against her enemy.” 

Raoul blinked as the singer smirked, wishing once again he knew where Christine had really gone.

“Maybe he took your little diva, Raoul,” Antoine sneered coldly and Raoul scowled. The singer laughed again, one of those knowing, smug laughs that he found extremely unbecoming in women.

“Wouldn’t that be a scandal,” she giggled as the group made their way from through the doors and towards their waiting carriages. 

Raoul looked around once more, still distantly hoping to find some sign of Christine. He froze in his survey as he caught sight of a figure lingering beside a column, calmly watching them: a man in a heavy coat and astrakhan hat with dark skin and eyes. The man noticed Raoul watching and gave a polite nod. Raoul was certain he had seen the man before, pestering Christine. He had sent compliments from someone…

“Who is that?” Raoul demanded as Philippe tugged him towards the carriage. The soprano’s bell-like laugh rang through the night again and Raoul turned to her with a grimace. 

“That’s the Persian, of course,” she answered, catching Raoul’s eye as Antoine helped her into their brougham. “Can you guess who he is supposed to work for?” 

Raoul opened his mouth to protest or demand more answers but Antoine had already closed the door with a cold laugh and pressed the woman into an embrace.

“Come on, little brother, no more ghost stories tonight,” Philippe chided. Raoul ignored him, turning back to look for the Persian again. He shook his head and cursed under his breath when he saw that the man had disappeared as well.

 

Erik did not want to open his eyes and discover it had been a dream. The only thing that gave him hope was the lingering warmth that cradled his aching hand. Slowly, afraid to breathe or move, he opened his eyes. 

She was still there, her sleeping face serene and beautiful, only a foot from his. She had cast her red robe over her like blanket, leaving her arms and shoulders bare but for the lace strap of her chemise. She had placed a blanket over him as well, he remarked, though he could not recall when she had done it. 

Her skin was like alabaster in the golden candlelight and it was so warm close to her. He raised his wounded hand and pushed her auburn hair from her face, gently brushing her skin as he did so, touching her the way he had dreamed of doing so often. It was so easy and wonderful. He touched her hand as her eyes opened gradually and she stared at him, calm and kind.

“You’re finally awake,” she noted quietly.

“You’re still here,” he echoed back. She smiled, gentle and warm, and Erik’s heart suddenly ached. It was the smile he had never thought to see again and it was for him.

“I told you I would stay,” she whispered simply, casting her eyes shyly towards their hands. Erik followed her gaze, still amazed that she was touching him so easily and it was real. He felt more awake and aware than he had in days and the world was beautifully clear. It was the night before that felt like a dream: the nightmare of watching her and the boy, the fight, the horror of his reflection and the unexpected miracle of her compassion. 

“Thank you,” he sighed, remembering the tenderness she had shown, like he had never experienced before in his life. He looked back into her radiant face and smiled as she blushed. She began to rise hesitantly, pulling her robe over her shoulders.

“I’ll…let you wash up,” she muttered, sitting up fully but keeping a hand touching his, she seemed as uncertain about leaving as he was about being left alone. At last she rose from the bed, but the feel of her touch lingered, like an echo. 

Erik sat up slowly, glancing around his room as Christine slipped on her robe. 

“I woke up earlier and cleaned up,” she explained as she caught the look of confusion in his eyes. “I’m not sure I got all the glass, so be careful. I didn’t know quite what to do with that ridiculous mirror, so I threw it outside, in the water I mean. I had to prop the door open, so I wouldn’t be locked out. You must show me again how to work the lock…” Christine stopped rambling, biting her lip and looking away. 

Erik wished he had the will to stop staring at her, but she was so utterly remarkable. She gave a quick nod and turned, leaving him to gaze after her, as she closed the door behind her, though not all the way. 

Erik washed and dressed much slower than usual, hampered by the wounds and bandages and lost in thought. The clock told him it was an hour past noon, which meant he had slept at least twelve hours. She had awoken before him and taken great care to banish every trace of the mirror he had kept so long to remind himself of the suffering he would meet in the mortal world. Then she had returned to his bed and taken his hand again. And before that, she had looked at his face and not screamed. 

He sat absently on the edge of the bed when he finished, still in awe. She had admitted she still desired him, something he had expected but had seemed so impossible in the heat of his anger and delirium the night before. What he had never expected was for her to say she did not want to see him hurt. So many people had wanted to see him suffer or even die, but no one had ever wanted to see him heal. He looked up at the soft sound of her breath. 

Christine stood at the door, her face cautious and gentle. She wore a simple gown of deep purple with a scooped neck that exposed her skin almost all the way to her shoulders. She had placed her hair in a loose bun at the back of her head, making her neck appear even longer and more graceful than usual. She was holding fresh bandages and a bowl.

“How do you feel?” she asked shyly. Erik looked down at his hands.

“Rather like a fool,” he answered honestly. 

She was smiling again when he looked up to watch her approach. She did not hesitate or blink as she sat beside him and set down her supplies.

“Let me see,” she commanded quietly as she took his hands. “I’ll have to change some of these,” she muttered as she examined the bandages. 

Erik could find no words as she delicately removed one long swath of cotton from his left hand. They had touched before and he had known her body as deeply as anyone could, but nothing compared to the gentle intimacy of her warm hands caring for his. 

Christine gave a frustrated sigh as she examined the worst of the cuts on his palm. 

“It looks worse than it feels,” he murmured. Christine gave a small scowl.

“Can you tell me why it is that whenever boys are confronted with a problem, they think the answer is to hit something?” 

Erik laughed softly at the question. “Well, it usually seems like a good idea at the time,” he excused himself wryly and was glad when she smiled, shaking her head. “How did you get to be such a skilled doctor?”

“When my father first started getting sick, when I was about seventeen, he needed medicine and care we couldn’t afford,” Christine explained as she wrapped a clean bandage around his hand. “A doctor took pity on us and let us stay as servants, in exchange for caring for my father. He was a very kind man. He loved music and to hear my father play or listen to me sing. He would let me help with his patients, mostly cleaning scrapes and dressing wounds.” Christine turned her attention to his other hand. “And most of the injuries I saw were boys who thought something was _a good idea at the time_.”

“They were probably all throwing themselves off cliffs just so the town doctor’s pretty nurse would patch them up.” Erik was surprised when Christine scoffed, shaking her head as if the idea was quite absurd. “You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?” he asked without thinking. 

Her eyes flew to his in surprise. He had never told her directly that she was beautiful, he realized; he had always just assumed she knew. 

“You shouldn’t try to play today,” she changed the subject, looking back to her work. “It will be better if you just rest.”

“Christine, I’m not an invalid,” he protested and she shot him a glare. 

“It’s Sunday; it was good enough for God to rest, it’s good enough for you,” she countered tartly, tying off the last bandage a bit more tightly than the others. 

Erik raised his hands slightly in a gesture of surrender. He did not want to risk the fire of her anger again so soon. She gave a satisfied nod then stood and left without further orders. Erik rose slowly to follow her, taking another moment to look at the room that had been in such ruins the night before. 

Everything was back in place as if nothing had happened, but the entire world seemed to have changed. He stepped into the main room and was surprised to find that Christine was not in it. The door to her room was ajar and with a few careful steps he was able to see inside to where she sat on her bed, looking down at something with a torn expression. It occurred to him that she was perhaps even more unsure of how to act in this new world than he was. 

“Christine?” he asked hesitantly as he pushed her door open farther. Her head snapped up in surprise at the sound of his voice. She must have been very deep in thought; otherwise she would have known he was watching her the way she almost always did. Her hands tightened on the white chemise she was holding. A small stain of blood marred the cloth. 

“It’s not yours,” she answered the question before he could ask it. This however troubled him more. Had he hurt her and forgotten it?

“Are you all right?” he asked, taking a cautious step towards her and, for the first time since she had come to him, actually entering her room. She avoided his gaze, her expression embarrassed and rather sad.

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” she sighed, quickly folding the garment and setting it aside. 

Erik understood at last, though he could not imagine why she might be so strangely sad to learn she was not pregnant. It was certainly a great relief to him. She stood resolutely, smoothing her dark dress and exhaling. 

Erik retreated backwards as she strode towards the door, letting her through into the main room and watching in continued fascination as she retrieved the heavy cloak he had given her. Unexpectedly, she pulled two books from the hidden pockets in the lining.

“What is that second one?” Erik recognized the worn binding and faded cover of the book Christine had always kept close. 

“It’s a diary,” she confessed, looking at the brown leather cover with a tired smile. “Adele gave it to me. I’ve been writing in it, about all that’s happened, I thought it might help me…understand. I didn’t want anyone finding it though, so I brought it here.” Erik gave a half smile, taken aback by her honesty and her unexpected commitment to protecting his secrets. “I’ll stop, if you want me to.”

“No,” he replied immediately, stepping closer to her in the candlelight. “I would never begrudge anything that might help you.”

“You can read it if you like,” she offered shakily. “There’s nothing in there anymore that you don’t…already know.” Christine’s voice faded as she stared intently at the books, clearly avoiding Erik’s eyes. It was the first time she had acknowledged the previous night’s confession.

“No,” he refused in a whisper. She set the diary aside on the crowded shelf by her door and fingered the spine of the remaining volume. “What is that book? I’ve always wondered,” he asked casually, hoping to distract them both.

“You’ve never looked?” she asked in return, finally looking back up at him. He shook his head.

“I guess I could have, but I wanted you to tell me,” he shrugged. 

“It’s a book of fairytales, gathered from all over,” she explained softly. “My father bought it when we first came to France. He knew all the stories, so he thought we could read them together, and it would help us learn the language better.” She gave a beautiful, regretful smile as she looked down at the volume. “I know them all by heart now; but when I read them, I can still hear his voice. He used to tell me the northern tales as well…” Christine sighed.

“Will you tell me one?” Christine looked back to him, her eyes guarded but hopeful. 

“Only if you will trade me a story in return,” she countered, offering Erik the book as she moved towards her accustomed seat on the worn couch. 

His fingers covered hers for a second as he took the volume from her hands. His heart raced as he let the contact linger, amazed he that he could. At last he drew away, taking his seat by the fire as she did the same.

“You first.” She smiled again, the wonderful secret smile he treasured, as she looked at the low burning fire. He could see her imagining distant, fantastic lands full of magic.

“You can always tell the northern stories, they’re full of trolls and curses. There was one story I always demanded: East of the Sun, and West of the Moon. There was once a very poor farmer, who lived in the woods with his daughters…”

 

Richard grunted in the slightest of acknowledgement as the doctor excused himself from Carlotta’s sumptuous flat on the Boulevard des Cappucines. The manager had expected more visitors or concerned admirers, and had prepared several excuses for his presence, but no one else but the harried doctor had come. Perhaps they were all still at mass, he thought, but considered it unlikely. More likely no one gave a damn about the fallen diva now except to retell the story of her disgrace and laugh again. Carlotta’s half dozen servants were barely willing to show their faces and even sycophantic little LeDour was scarce – probably already looking for another star to fawn over. 

Richard was apparently the only one in Paris that felt some sort of responsibility for the woman. It was stupid, of course. She had only taken him to her bed to assure her place on the stage, nothing more. Still, she had been the first unpaid woman in his bed since his wife’s death and it had filled a strange void he had not know was there; and in a way, he blamed himself for her current state.

Richard slouched into an overstuffed chair by the parlor fire, going over the doctor’s diagnosis again. Carlotta had not been sick – there was no fever, no weakness, nothing but the loss of her voice. His conclusion: she had been drugged. In one of her lucid moments she had blamed her maid, rasping that she was sure Christine Daaé had paid off the girl. The maid was nowhere to be found, which seemed to confirm Carlotta’s suspicion, but there was no proof at all that Daaé was involved. That, however, did not stop Richard from wondering. The doctor had not bee able to explain the horrible sounds Carlotta had produced on the stage though.

“Magic,” Richard repeated aloud, bitterly. The doctor had said it must have been magic, or some other trick. At that point Richard had been too furious to listen to any more. Magic, curses, phantoms – somehow he had awoken and found himself in some absurd fantasy. It was almost impossible not to believe in this damned ghost, but he still refused to believe it was supernatural. The whole Opera was so frightened of the specter that no one seemed to even consider what the phantom really was. What, or _who_.

A ghost did not write notes. A ghost did not deliver poison to a disfavored prima donna. A ghost would have no reason to be seen wearing a mask. Yes, he knew all the stories now, enough to know that if Daaé was behind this she was not acting alone. Whoever her conspirator was had been doing this for a very long time. Richard knew it was useless to try to fight this ghost outright, but he could keep the girl close. It might even placate the creature, for a while. She would be the key to unmasking the mystery. 

 

Christine took the book back from Erik, wishing the story had been longer. The sound of the familiar words in his voice was so captivating and it was so much easier to listen to him than to read and feel him watching her with guarded adoration. 

Every time he looked at her today it had made her want to blush and hide, but there was no taking back what she had said or done, not that she really wanted to. There was a thrill to it of course – feeling him watching her and knowing that now he knew a part of her desired him – but the dizzy, breathless feeling was too overwhelming today. She just wanted to stay close to him and know he was not suffering.

“What is next?” Erik prompted her, though he did not have to. They had been reading and telling stories for hours, only pausing a few times to eat or for other distractions. Christine leafed through to where he had left off in the tattered book and turned the page to the next story.

“Oh, I don’t know…” 

Erik cocked his head curiously as Christine stared at the words and took the book from her hands. He laughed softly as he read the title that had troubled her, but there was sadness behind the sound.

“ _Beauty and the Beast_ ,” he sighed and Christine bit her lip. They had read and told many stories that day about curses and monsters, but this one had seemed far too close for comfort. 

“That was always my favorite actually,” he mused and she caught his eyes. He looked away from her, something distant and regretful clouding his gaze. “When I was small, I read that story, and others, and I began to wonder if I was under an evil fairy’s curse. Surely God would not have made me this way, there had to be some other reason, which meant there had to be a way to break the spell. In all those stories it’s beautiful maiden’s love, or a princess’ kiss that breaks the curse. I couldn’t find any princesses, but my mother was beautiful…” 

Christine held her breath. He had never spoken of his family before. 

“I went to her and begged her for one kiss, so that I could be normal. She threw my mask at me and screamed that no kiss or magic would ever change me. She said I was her curse and neither of us would ever be free of what I was.” 

Christine turned away, trying to hide the tears in her eyes.

“That’s awful,” she murmured, finding the words rather useless.

“She was,” Erik agreed bitterly. “She died a year after that,” he continued unprompted, surprising her. 

“How did she die?” Christine asked timidly.

“She hanged herself in the bell tower of the church,” Erik replied quickly. 

Christine turned back to him, shocked. 

He was still staring into the fire. “The people in our village had heard she had a demon for a son, so they blamed me for it. I ran away a few days after. I thought I was free, but I didn’t get too far.”

“How old were you?” He looked back as her, his eyes incredibly sad and beautiful. 

“I was eight.” She gaped at him, barely able to imagine what it must have been like. He shrugged, dismissing the memory and looking back to the book. “These stories are much better than mine, they all have happy endings, even for some of the monsters.”

“Erik…” Christine wished she could find words to express the depth of her pity for him and the unexplainable desire to protect him from the pain of his past. The thought of what she could do to heal those wound was still terrifying though. He looked up at her, his eyes expectant and full of longing that made her catch her breath. 

“But maybe you’re right, we should read something else,” he remarked with a sigh. She glanced at the clock – it was already past midnight. She sat up from where she had been leaning on the arm of the couch, distancing herself from him and trying to still her racing thoughts. 

“It’s getting late,” Christine declared clumsily and immediately regretted it when she saw the hurt in Erik’s eyes. 

“Of course, you’ve been awake longer,” Erik agreed forlornly. 

Christine rose wondering angrily to herself where she had thought she would be sleeping tonight. It would be better, easier, for them if she just went to her own bed; as Erik would tell her, it would be so much safer. 

She began to move towards her door. Erik caught her wrist quicker than blinking, holding her back with gentle pressure. Christine gasped.

“Stay.” The plea was breathless and beautiful. Christine could not help but look down and lose herself in his eyes; the look she saw there was not lust but fearful loneliness. “Please stay,” he begged ardently. 

Christine took a quivering breath and slipped her hand in to his then gently pulled him from his seat and close to her.

“Yes,” she whispered. Her steady, calm movements betraying none of the trepidation and panic in her heart, she guided him to the worn damask couch and drew him with her as she sat back down. He had her seat now, and was staring at her in puzzled anticipation. 

Without hesitation she lifted his arm and settled her body against his, her head resting gently on his chest. She could hear his heart pounding fast. She pulled her feet on to the couch and took his hand, as he uncertainly placed the other on her shoulder. She was sure she felt him tremble slightly. 

“Tell me another story,” she commanded, her voice shaking.

“It isn’t my turn,” he protested weakly. She could hear the fear and amazement in his voice.  
“I will owe you another tomorrow then.” 

He took a deep breath and his chest rose smoothly beneath her cheek. 

“There was once a goblin who made a magic mirror, that made everything good it reflected look horrible and vile, while it made everything awful appear beautiful and sweet…” 

Christine closed her eyes and surrendered to the wonderful sound of his voice and the sensation of his closeness. She savored feeling of safety in his arms, even though she knew it was an illusion. 

 

“I really wish you would stop worrying so much,” Robert sighed as Armand quickly shut the door behind them. The bloody housekeeper had left hours before at his command, though she’d given him a suspicious glare. “No one knows. No one cares,” Robert tried to comfort him, taking hold of Armand’s lapels and pulling him towards him.

“Everyone cares,” Armand argued uselessly as Robert pulled him into a kiss. 

The embrace seemed to go on and on, stoking the fire that had been smoldering since his last encounter with the bass the night before. It had not been enough. It never was. Robert let him go smoothly, his hands lingering on his shoulders.

“Everyone has better things to talk about,” Robert whispered seductively. 

“Such as?” Armand demanded, rapt, watching his lover’s lips curl in a wicked smile.

“Sorelli jilted Philippe De Chagny after she found out he had supported his brother in – what was it, tripling? – the amount of the Chagny patronage to support Daaé. They say your friend Richard is livid that his lover was disgraced.”

“Richard and Carlotta?” Armand asked with a weak laugh and Robert nodded. He should have known.

“She was the one who let it slip I think, probably on purpose,” Robert shrugged as Armand ran his hand absently through the singer’s short, dark hair. “Most singers like everyone to know who they’re keeping in their beds, keeps rivals at bay.”

“Is that so?” Armand frowned. Robert laughed softly and bent his head. He began to kiss Armand’s neck, slow and meticulous.

“Oh yes.” The words were warm against Armand’s skin. “But I prefer Daaé’s approach. Everyone knows she had a lover, but no one knows who it is.”

“I thought the younger Chagny was taken with her?” Armand inquired half-heartedly as Robert loosened his cravat and collar.

“Oh he is, but she has someone else, they say,” Robert chuckled. “I think I saw him the other night. He whispered something to her before she went on stage.”

“You didn’t recognize him?” Armand asked, suddenly truly curious. Robert pulled away and gave a mischievous half-smile. 

“He was in a costume, wearing a mask,” Robert answered. “I’ve already told you who I think it is.” 

“I still don’t see how that’s possible…” Robert stopped the manager’s protestations with another long, powerful kiss. Armand sighed as he pulled away, trying to remember what they had just been saying.

“I’ll tell you the stories again, later,” Robert promised roguishly as he began to pull Armand towards the stairs. “Much later.”

 

Meg hated being a dancer some days, especially the days like these when she had to be at the Opera before any other performers. The rehearsals seemed to never end. The hours at the barre, the constant strains and aches, the bloodied toes and tattered pointe shoes – there were always more waiting. Her mother said she had to keep it up; otherwise she would never have a chance to marry someone above her station. 

Meg trudged through the two-toned halls, making her way slowly towards the east rehearsal hall, sighing again. The Monday rehearsals had almost been pleasant for a time when Christine would meet her and come to watch. Christine had always seemed to be at the Opera, before she had become a great diva and disappeared almost entirely from Meg’s life. Now she was probably off somewhere singing like an angel with her mysterious _teacher_.

 

“Mademoiselle Giry!” Meg spun at the male voice. Her heart began to race as Raoul de Chagny stumbled towards her. He was perhaps the only man she had ever known to chase her or remember her name. Of course it was because of Christine, but it still made her feel so giddy when he did.

“Monsieur De Chagny…what are you doing back here!” she exclaimed. She knew of course, but it was still rare to see a patron backstage beyond the salons and galleries.

“Apparently the amount of money my family will be giving the Opera this year buys me some privileges,” he muttered, glancing around and looking rather lost.

“I haven’t seen her,” Meg told him and he sighed.

“I wasn’t really expecting that,” he confessed. “I was hoping to find you though.”

“Me?” Meg squeaked, amazed.

“Yes, you’re the only one here that ever tells me anything,” Raoul explained and Meg blushed. She didn’t care a whit that he was going to make her late for rehearsal. The most handsome man she had ever seen had been looking for her. 

“What can I tell you, Monsieur?”

“I want you to tell me everything you can about the opera ghost.”


	7. Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duets and diversions.

Erik had thought it might be easier to wake up next to her the second day in a row, that it would seem less miraculous and fill him with less trepidation and longing. He had been terribly wrong. They had fallen asleep soon after she had taken her place beside him on the couch and now he woke with the angel in his arms. The weight of her body against him, the feel of her silken hair beneath his hands, the gentle rhythm of her breath moving in counterpoint to his, the warm perfection of her skin – each detail was exquisite and heartbreaking. How could he ever rest alone again, knowing _this_ was possible? The clock showed it was past nine, well beyond the hour when civilized folk would be waking, but he would be damned if he would do anything to end this closeness. 

At last Christine stirred subtly beside him, breathing in deeply and – surprisingly and wonderfully – pressing closer to him as she began to wake and shift her body. He waited for her to tense and stiffen as she realized where she was, but it didn’t happen. At last she looked up at him, her expression relaxed and curious.

“Good morning,” he murmured.

“Morning?” she asked and turned languidly to check the clock above the fire. She gave a small laugh. “We slept through the whole night, like this?” Erik nodded as she looked at him, her expression still disbelieving. “I can’t imagine that being terribly comfortable for you.”

“It was perfect.” 

She rose from his arms, looking away from him demurely. He watched her fondly as she stretched and yawned, completely un-self-consciousness before she caught him staring from the corner of her eye then blushed. “I should wash up,” she muttered and retreated quickly to her room. 

Erik moved slowly to do the same, there was no rush at all – she would return soon enough. They had the entire day again. There would be no rehearsals or performances to draw her back into the light, only music and stories and the mystery of each other in the dark.

 

Christine cradled her head in her hands, trying to still the spinning of the world and catch her breath as she sat on the bed she had not slept in for two nights. She was washed and freshly dressed in the blue gown Adele had liked so much, but she was not ready to go back to the same room as Erik. When she had awoken in his arms, for those first moments all she had wanted was to be even closer to him. Never had her skin felt so alive, as if it was at the same time too tight and too warm. 

The sound of the piano from the main room made her lift her head, instantly sweeping under the spell of his music. He was improvising on the familiar melody of their lullaby. She could hear the memory of the previous two nights in the music and the sound of adoration and wonder made her catch her breath again. 

She walked slowly to the main room without a second thought and leaned against the mantle to listen and watch him play. Her heart was still pounding, but the music was enough to make her forget even that. Far too soon for her satisfaction he brought the melody to a close and looked up at her.

“I did not give you permission to play,” she chided without any real threat in the words, drifting closer to the piano.

“My apologies,” he nodded as he rose and moved towards her. “I felt inspired.” He handed her an apple that seemed to appear in his hand out of thin air. “We will need to practice Gilda today; with your permission, of course.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to embarrass my teacher at rehearsal tomorrow,” she agreed grudgingly. “Can we read more before we begin? We haven’t read a play in a few days.”

“Of course,” Erik agreed instantly, smiling warmly as he did so. “Perhaps A Midsummer Night’s Dream; it’s full of as many fairies and magic spells and beasts as your stories.”

“Our stories,” Christine corrected him without thinking. She was sure that if she could see his eyebrows they would be raised. She quickly looked away, taking a bite of the apple to stop herself from saying anything else.

“I also said we could start the Arabian Nights, didn’t I?” Erik offered carefully. “I do think you will like those.” Christine nodded, enticed and calmed by the prospect of more stories by the fire before the time came to sing with him again. She was frightened to even imagine the ecstasy and danger their music would bring today, perhaps even more so than of the inevitable moment they would touch again.

 

Shaya rose from the prayer mat, sighing and weary. Praying each day for the same thing became tiresome some days, enough to test a man’s faith, but today was the hardest.

“Master, is there nothing I can bring you?” Darius asked timidly from the door to the parlor of the cramped flat on the Rue de Rivoli. Shaya shook his head. Darius had always been more attentive than Shaya knew he deserved. He knew today would be a day of fasting and prayer for his master, but that did not stop him from trying to ease Shaya’s burdens as much as he could. Shaya glanced to the door, sighing again at Darius’ expression of worry.

“You know what I must do today,” Shaya reassured the smaller man.

“His soul is at peace, sir,” Darius protested sadly, glancing to the fireplace. Shaya stood and strode to the mantle, lifting the sepia photograph regretfully and regarding the image. The man in the picture stared back, his expression serious, yet warm and proud. It had been such a luxury, to have a photograph made. Most people in Tehran had never even seen one, but their family had been favorites of the Shah at the time. 

“I do not pray for his soul, Darius, you know this,” Shaya murmured. “I pray for mine. I know the vengeance I seek may damn me. I pray for God to show me a righteous path.”

“It has been eight years,” Darius argued quietly. “Surely in that time you must have…”

“I will never forgive him, Darius,” Shaya stopped him. “If I was a better man, I would pray for the strength to do that, but I am not. I can only pray for the courage and strength to do what must be done.” 

“Then may Allah make it so,” Darius whispered.

“May Allah make it so,” Shaya repeated, setting the picture back on the mantle as his servant quietly closed the door. 

 

“ _Dear name, name of my beloved, that makes my heart beat for the first time_ ,” Christine sang, her voice ringing through the dark, clear as crystal as she launched into the final, sparkling cadenza of the aria. Erik let his eyes close as the notes spilled gloriously from her throat, climaxing in a perfect high D sharp. “ _Gualtier Malde, Gualtier Malde_ …” she finished on delicate trill.

“Very good,” he commented as the last chords echoed from the piano. She had of course been far more than good. He could see in her eyes that she knew she had done well and that she saw the admiration and joy in his own gaze that told her so. They did not need any more words.

“That song is so sad, in a way,” Christine murmured, absently running her hand over the edge of the piano. They had worked backwards on her role, beginning with the demanding quartet and finishing with the equally daunting _Caro Nome_. 

“Because the name she is so happy about learning is a lie?” Erik guessed. Christine nodded, looking thoughtfully at her hands then back to him.

“But just because it was a lie, I guess that does not mean she is not truly happy,” she mused softly. Erik watched her curiously, wondering if she was talking about herself as much as Gilda. “How does one get a name by accident?” 

“Pardon?” 

“You said your name came to you by accident, what did you mean?” Christine clarified quickly. Erik understood – she had been thinking about learning _his_ name. 

“There was a priest take came to our village when I was quite small, perhaps two,” he began hesitantly. “He was Irish, but the church had shuffled him all over the world on missions and assignments to different parishes where he had apparently been less than virtuous or successful. Our village was the last punishment. He was not a kind man, nor a very good priest, but when he found out about my mother – that she was alone in the world with a monstrous child – he took an interest in her. He kept us from starving and insisted that I at least be baptized and given a Christian name.”

“You didn’t have a name before then?” Christine asked in horror as Erik looked down at the keyboard, leisurely stroking the keys with his bandaged hands. It had not been hard to play, once he had adjusted.

“Not that I know of,” Erik shrugged. “The priest, Father Michael, he chose a name at random from among his books. He was reading a history of Viking kings at the time, he told me later and he liked the name Erik. Thank God he wasn’t reading something in Greek or Latin.”

“He took care of you – and your mother?” Christine asked hesitantly. Erik pressed softly on the keys, summoning a melody from Mozart’s mass in C minor.

“In his way,” he answered with a sigh. “He kept us off the streets, and he helped teach me to read and write, first French, then English and even Gaelic; and then when it became clear I had an aptitude for music, he taught what he could of that as well when he was sober enough to do so. He demanded very little from my mother in repayment.”

“Repayment?” Christine echoed. Erik gave her a dark glance and her eyes widened in understanding. “Was he cruel?” 

“Yes, but it was no worse than what I was used to already,” he answered dismissively. He turned away from her; her pity was beautiful but he did not like to see her pain. “Would you like to sing something else?” he asked, trying to lighten the moment. “Mozart perhaps?”

“Are your hands alright?” she asked dubiously. He stood and presented his hand to her for inspection. He tensed in exhilaration as she touched him, pulling him subtly towards her while turning her back halfway to him. She held his left hand before her, to see it in better light he guessed. He did not care the reason, since it meant her shoulder was only an inch from his chest.

“They’re fine,” he told her as she delicately removed a bandage. She touched his palm tenderly where the worst cut was healing.

“There will be a scar,” she whispered.

“There always is,” he consoled her and she looked up in concern. He smiled sadly. “Nature did not feel this face was enough of a burden, so she deemed that every wound or cut would leave a scar, even injuries that would not trouble a normal person,” he explained, pointing to two other thin white lines on the same hand. 

Christine’s brow knit as her fingertips softly traced the path of the old wounds, sending a thrill through his whole body. She turned his hand in hers, finding other scars and touching them just as gently. Erik tried to remain still as her study continued.

“That’s why your skin feels the way it does,” she breathed, both awe and dismay in her voice. She touched his wrists, which were subtly encircled by scars, reminders of a life of captivity. Erik tensed as she unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt. He took in a ragged breath as her fingers continued up his arm, exploring his skin with unguarded fascination and sympathy. “All scars.” 

“At least this one will make me think of you,” he sighed, losing himself in the sublime sensation of her touch. She looked up at him, something like shock in her face, as if she had not realized how enticing and emboldening her actions were. She turned away, catching her breath but she did not move away. 

Erik slowly moved his hand back to hers as he bent his head closer to her. Husky and soft, he began to sing; Zerlina and Don Giovanni’s duet.

“ _There we will entwine our hands_.” He felt her tremble subtly as Mozart’s playfully seductive melody issued from his throat, softer than they might have sung on stage and infinitely more intimate. “ _There you will say ‘yes.’_ ” Even in Italian, Don Giovanni’s tempting pronouncement was a more overt plea to her than he had ever dared. “ _It is not far away; let us go from here, my love_.” 

He slipped his free arm around her waist and pulled her to him, pressing her body against his and reveling in her closeness.

“ _I want to, and I do not want to,_ ” Christine sang in reply, her voice rich with timid longing as well. “ _Though my heart trembles a bit_...” Erik closed his eyes as she uncertainly leaned back into the embrace and continued to sing Zerlina’s indecision and her own desire.

“ _Come, my love, my delight_ ,” he implored as her fingers laced with his and guided his hand beneath hers to touch the exposed skin at her neck. 

 

Her voice echoed with doubt and yearning, as she sang in counterpoint while he touched her, pulling her even closer. His hands swept over her body, bolder with each second and whether she was guiding him or following, he could not tell. All that mattered was that she was not stopping him. 

“ _I am no longer strong._ ” He could feel her heat; her could feel her heart pounding beneath his hand as he caressed her, his fingertips straying below her neckline. Her head fell back against his chest as they sang, temptation and trepidation playing back and forth. Her song was growing breathless and more impassioned as their voices danced together.

“ _Let us go; let us go_ ,” he entreated, his lips perilously close to her skin and he bent his head even closer to her. She paused for a beat.

“ _Let us go _…” she echoed at last, her voice shaking as the notes fell in surrender.__

__Their voices came together at last in unison: “ _Let us go, my love, let us go_.” _ _

__He dared to open his eyes and look at her as he continued to touch her, adoring the fire he could feel beneath her skin, dizzy with want. Her eyes were half closed and her face was flushed. She gripped his arm tightly as if she was frightened to fall. They repeated the phrase once, twice, the melody growing softer each time; a third time, barely a whisper._ _

__As the song finished, Erik was not surprised to find that he was almost panting. He tried to steady his breath as he waited for her. Whether she would succumb to desire or fear he did not know, but the next move had to be hers._ _

__

__Christine opened her eyes slowly, trying not to fall as she felt his breath against her skin. He was incredibly close; close enough to kiss her. The world was reduced to nothing but he feel of his arms locked around her and the longing in his shining eyes. She inclined her head closer and his mask brushed against her cheek, cold and unyielding._ _

__She drew away instantly, gasping in spite of herself as if she had been splashed with cold water. He would not let go of her hand however and his eyes held an unsure challenge when she looked back at him._ _

__“Take me somewhere else,” she demanded, her voice a rasp. The hurt she had expected was in his eyes, but there was also still curious hope._ _

__“What?”_ _

__Christine did not even know what she had meant by it: whether she wanted him to take her to his bed or as far from it as possible. “Take me out,” the frightened side of her forced her to say._ _

__“What?” he asked again, now completely bewildered, though he still had not let go of her hand. When had his skin turned so warm?_ _

__“Normal suitors are supposed to take their ladies on outings, aren’t they?” she explained, the words coming before she could stop herself. He looked at her as if she had just spoken Greek. “You are a suitor, in your way, aren’t you?”_ _

__Erik gaped at her, his grip loosening a bit. “I’m hardly normal.”_ _

__“You told me you could go anywhere in Paris,” she countered. “Show me.”_ _

__He cocked his head, considering her, most likely trying to decide if she had lost her mind. He had to know though that it was simply too soon. Nodding slowly he at last let go of her hand. The loss of contact was like a blow. He grabbed his cape and hat and threw Christine her own dark cloak._ _

__“As you command, my lady,” he murmured with a bow as she shrouded herself in the garment. In a moment they were on the dark bank of the lake._ _

__The cold, dank air was bracing against her hot skin. She took a deep breath, her thoughts finally slowing a bit as her eyes adjusted to the shadows. She moved towards the boat, wondering if her calm would survive the moment he touched her again to help her in._ _

__“No, not that way,” Erik stopped her, catching her by the elbow. She gave him a questioning look. He guided her along the edge of the water, in a different direction than the passage up to the stables._ _

__They soon came to an arch that reminded her of a great yawning mouth, leading to utter blackness. She swallowed, her demand to leave the Opera suddenly seeming less wise._ _

__“Are you sure about this?” Erik inquired, clearly sensing her apprehension. “There are things more frightening than rats in the dark.”_ _

__“Is there anything there more frightening than you?”_ _

__“I guess that depends on your perspective,” he replied roguishly._ _

__“From the perspective of someone or something that might try to hurt me?” He gave her a smile that was at the same time wicked and kind, his eyes glittering in the dark._ _

__“Nothing.”_ _

__“Let us go then,” she smiled back at him._ _

__

__Raoul sighed and rolled his eyes as another guest was announced. He had been so very successful in avoiding his social obligations since his return home, but Philippe had not allowed him to get out of this particular party. It had been especially annoying that his brother had used the threat of telling Sabine about the family’s new place as the top patrons of the Opera in order to assure his compliance._ _

__“Raoul, dear me, how you’ve changed!” a sweet voice chimed. Raoul turned: Yvette Sully had changed as well from the plump, rather awkward girl he had known years before. She had grown considerably thinner and the thick black hair that had once been so unruly was now arranged in a perfect pile of shining curls. She was quite pretty in fact._ _

__“Yvette, good evening, so good to see you,” he smiled weakly, bowing and taking her hand. She gave him a doubtful look._ _

__“Say it again and mean it,” she demanded. Raoul blinked, quite taken aback and wondering if his preoccupation with Christine was written so very clearly on his face._ _

__“It is wonderful to see you, Yvette; you look stunning,” he tried once more. It was not so hard to sincerely mean it; her violet dress hugged the curves that were all that remained of her former physique and her eyes sparkled as brightly as the diamonds at her throat._ _

__“Much better,” she grinned. “Now, your sister tells me you have been busy defending our shores for these last two years?”_ _

__“I’ve mostly been on land, unfortunately,” Raoul replied, rather pleased that someone had finally asked. He offered Yvette an arm and she took it with a look of clear satisfaction. “I’m waiting for my commission; it should come very soon.”_ _

__“Well, I hope not too soon, Paris will be quite the poorer without you.” Raoul smiled at the compliment. “I think I must insist that you call on me at least twice before you hear.” His smile faltered. He had much more important things to attend to before that happened. Well, one thing, but Christine was more than important._ _

__“Shall we dance?” Yvette suggested as the quintet began a new tune._ _

__“I fear you may be disappointed, I am not graceful,” he demurred. Yvette gave a shrug and a sly smile._ _

__“That is surprising, I had heard you were quite the lover of music,” she commented lightly as she guided him to the floor and placed her hand on his shoulder. Raoul stared at her in confusion as they began to move to the quaint melody._ _

__“I…” he stuttered._ _

__“Come, Raoul, everyone has heard,” Yvette silenced him. “I know all about the many benefits of an Opera patronage, and it doesn’t bother me.”_ _

__“What?” Raoul demanded, trying not to trip and glad that Yvette seemed to know where to move among the other couples._ _

__“I also know men like you don’t marry singers,” she stated simply and gave a little glance over his shoulder. They spun and Raoul could see she had been looking at Sabine, who was watching them closely, her face grim and satisfied. “Not even a fine sailor like you would be that brave,” she added knowingly as they turned again._ _

__Raoul regarded the girl in his arms who Sabine had clearly selected for him as a suitable match. She was from one of the richer families in Paris, though not quite as prominent as his own, and she had no title. He tried to imagine her as a bride, think of a life beside her, surrounded by children and laughter. He tried not to grimace, as the face in his mind became Christine’s._ _

__“I think people can always surprise you,” he argued quietly, thinking back on ghost stories and the fear and sadness he had seen in Christine’s face days before; “they just need a reason to be brave.”_ _

__

__“Are you sure you know where you are going?” Christine asked lightheartedly as they turned down another tunnel. Erik gave her a quiet, confident smile over his shoulder. “You’re not taking me into one of those tunnels walled with skulls are you?”_ _

__“No, unless you’d like to see one,” he answered and laughed as she scowled._ _

__The night so far had been unexpectedly delightful. He had taken her through the tunnels to the cellar of what he claimed was one of the more famous and expensive restaurants in the city and they had, as he said, “sampled” their stores of rich delicacies, including the best wine she had ever tasted._ _

__He had told her about how the catacombs below the city had been built up over centuries, including how the bones of thousands of deceased Parisians had been used to build walls when the cemeteries had overflowed then been moved. They had not encountered another living soul, though at one point Erik had held her back as a shadow crossed far ahead of them in the dark._ _

__“Ah, here we are,” Erik declared as they came to a large wooden door braced with iron at the end of the tunnel. Christine tried to make out the worn crest above the threshold in the old stonework. “This was built in the sixteenth century, I believe,” he explained as he pressed the door open. “I was quite pleased when I found it; I’d been looking for a way in here for months when I did.”_ _

__“Where is _here_?” Christine demanded, though she knew it was useless. _ _

__Erik laughed, the sound like cool water flowing in the dark, but did not reply. He raised the lantern higher as they emerged in a chamber that reminded Christine strongly of the prop room she had slept in for her first month at the Opera, though it was much bigger. The flickering light and shadows danced over the shapes of bodies and boxes and what looked like small set pieces…_ _

__“Over here,” Erik whispered, drawing her attention away form the strange sights. He indicated what looked like a coffin, but was painted with intricate designs and an exotic face. “This in one of my favorites: Napoleon brought it back from Egypt, it didn’t belong to a Pharaoh, but perhaps to a prince…”_ _

__Christine gasped slowly, her eyes growing wide as she drew back and looked around again. They were indeed in a storeroom, but it was full of statutes and paintings and all manner of other art, stacked carelessly to the ceiling._ _

__“There’s more stored down here than they have on view above I think,” Erik commented casually as he watched her survey the cellar._ _

__“Erik, where are we?” she asked in breathless wonder as her eyes passed over a huge tapestry, a collection of small vases topped with animal heads and dozens of paintings leaned against a wall._ _

__“I’ve always wondered if they would notice if I borrowed anything,” Erik continued to muse, pretending to ignore her. “It has to be hard to keep track of things in the cellars of the largest building in Europe.”_ _

__“The Louvre. You brought me to the Louvre,” Christine declared, laughing quietly in shock and enchantment._ _

__“We should stay down here for a while, it will be less likely that we’ll run into anyone when we go up if we wait,” he told her, clearly satisfied by her reaction._ _

__“Go up?” she echoed, further amazed._ _

__“I can’t let you leave without seeing the DaVincis.” She wondered if her eyes could get any wider. “Don’t worry, I’ve never been caught here, it’s far too large.”_ _

__“And if that changes tonight?” Erik grinned and looked her over._ _

__“Then I hope you can run in those skirts,” he teased and Christine found herself laughing in awe again. They began to move slowly through the maze of forgotten works of art._ _

__“Does this do, as an outing, my lady?” Erik asked delicately as they paused to look at an impressive statute of a Roman hero. “I know a normal suitor might take you…”_ _

__“It’s wonderful,” she cut him off, hearing the sadness in his tone. “I’m sorry I said that, by the way, about being normal.”_ _

__“I wish I could be, you know. For you,” Erik murmured, looking wistfully at the sculpted marble face illuminated by the lantern light._ _

__“Erik, even if you looked like everyone else, you would never be normal.”_ _

__He turned to her, his eyes reflecting a sudden hurt. He had misunderstood her._ _

__Christine smiled warmly. “Surely you must know how extraordinary you are?”_ _

__Erik regarded her, shaking his head slowly as he raised a pale hand to her cheek. Christine savored the dizzying excitement of the touch, suddenly as overcome had she had been in his arms hours before._ _

__“Not as extraordinary as you,” he breathed back._ _

__Christine looked away, blushing. She turned her attention back to the massive store of splendor around them. There was so much beauty beneath Paris’s feet, and so few would ever know it was there._ _

__

__Erik was not surprised when Christine went almost instantly to her room when they arrived back. It was well past midnight and she had been yawning since they had reentered the catacombs. As had become a new habit in the past days, she said nothing and avoided looking at him when she turned away. The action stung, especially after a day of such closeness, but he could not blame her for her fear. He felt it too._ _

__He chose not to think of the timidity of Christine’s retreat as he returned to his own room and halfheartedly prepared for bed. It was far more pleasant to remember walking the empty, echoing halls of the Louvre with his pupil beside him, whispering to her all he knew about each work of art. He had been the one to insist they return to the Opera, however regretfully. Neither of them wanted the dawn to come, since it meant Christine’s return to the world above._ _

__Everything was so much colder when she was away, he thought ruefully, his mood darkening at the thought. He ran his hand through his hair, touching the damned mask as he did and wishing that he could ignore the memory of her smiling at someone else. He fell back on the bed, still half-dressed but weary. He wondered how long it would take him to decide attempting to sleep was useless. The minutes stretched out as he stared at the dark carvings of the canopy. Was she asleep yet? Even reading by the fire would be a sad reminder of her absence from his side, but at least he would be closer to her._ _

__The sound of a sigh from his door made him turn his head swiftly. Christine’s hair was loose and free, and she held her red robe close around her body. Her expression was both frightened and gentle. Erik began to rise as she moved to the bed, but she moved quickly to him and stopped him, her hands pressed against his chest. He caught them with his, suddenly trembling._ _

__“I…” She stopped, shaking her head as the words refused to come._ _

__Erik was frozen, torn between the desire to sweep her in to his arms or snap at her for her infuriating inconsistency. She did not wait for him however; instead she pushed him gently back on to the mattress, and lay down beside him, settling her body against him as she did. Erik let his head fall back as she pulled the sheets over them._ _

__“I didn’t think you would say yes if I asked you to stay again,” he whispered to her, tentatively wrapping her in his arms. He closed his eyes and heard her sigh once more, whether from contentment or fear, he could not tell._ _

__“I can’t sleep without you either,” she confessed through the dark._ _

__

__Christine tried to concentrate on each step along Erik’s secret road to her dressing room. It was easier to think of walking than of waking up in Erik’s bed with his arms around her. She had watched him sleep for a while before slipping back to her own room to bathe and dress. She had been too frightened to stay any longer._ _

__Their bodies had been so close and fantasies of how easily he could touch her or take her had come unbidden, even after she had put much needed distance between them. It had been looking at the mask that had helped her leave; realizing that, as far as she knew, he had only taken it off once in the entire time she had been with him. Even then he had hidden – not that she had been able to bear looking at him for too long anyway. How could she look again?_ _

__“Are you nervous?” Erik asked and Christine nearly tripped as her mind shot back to the present._ _

__“What?”_ _

__“Your first principal rehearsal, are you nervous?” Erik clarified, attentively helping her up the final flight of hidden stone stairs._ _

__“Oh, no, not really,” she muttered._ _

__“That’s confident,” he complimented as they came to the passage behind the mirror._ _

__“I have a very good teacher,” she countered quietly as Erik set their lantern aside. It was vary hard to see him in the shadows, but she was almost sure he was smiling as he turned back to her. He was still holding her hand. He seemed to be hesitating, about to say something. “I’ll come right back here if you like,” she offered._ _

__He remained silent, his glowing eyes focusing intently on her. Somehow he had moved very close to her, so close that their bodies were barely touching. He raised a hand to her face, tenderly stroking her cheek._ _

__“Please,” he answered at last, his voice soft and full of longing._ _

__“I’ll always come back,” she reassured him in a rapt whisper as his fingers twined gently with her hair. Her eyes closed halfway and felt his breath on her face. She shivered, tilting her head to him, waiting…_ _

__“You’ll be late,” he told her abruptly, releasing her. Christine blinked._ _

__“Why have you never kissed me?” she blurted out, sounding more offended than she had meant to. “You’ve had chances and I know you want to…” she amended, he was still close, but she could feel that he had grown tense. Even in the dark she could see the conflict in his eyes._ _

__“I guess I’ve always thought there was a reason kisses were magic; important, precious things must be given,” he replied guardedly after a long moment. “A real kiss, cannot be forced or stolen.”_ _

__“That must be disappointing for a thief.” Again her voice was more petulant than she had expected._ _

__“Nor can they be bought,” Erik added bitterly. Christine tilted her head, perplexed. “A whore will do anything you ask, except kiss you.”_ _

__She drew back from him an inch, her thoughts racing once more. “How would you know that?”_ _

__“I thought most people knew that,” Erik evaded, as Christine shook her head._ _

__“I didn’t.” Christine stared at him, a challenge in her eyes. “No more lies, wasn’t that what you said?”_ _

__Erik stared at her, clearly trying to find the right words to explain himself as the moment stretched out, answering her question without words._ _

__Christine looked down, feeling suddenly stupid and ashamed._ _

__“I am human, Christine,” he tried to defend himself. “I wanted to know…”_ _

__“How many times?” she pried, uninterested in excuses or details._ _

__“What?” There was a slight note of panic in his voice, which was mildly satisfying._ _

__“It’s a simple question, isn’t it?” She hoped that it was at least._ _

__“Three,” he answered grudgingly._ _

__She kept looking away, wondering what she had been expecting. “And you’ve still never kissed anyone?” Again she did not have to hear the words to know the answer._ _

__“Which is something I am sure you have done,” he shot back, his voice matching hers in sourness. It was Christine’s turn to grope for words._ _

__“I kissed my family…and everyone kisses on the cheek in France,” she stuttered._ _

__“Did you kiss that boy?” She was glad the darkness in the passage would make it harder for him to see her blush._ _

__“I was sixteen…” she tried to excuse herself._ _

__“How many times?”_ _

__She would have glared at him had she not been so flustered, or aware that she deserved to have the interrogation turned back on her._ _

__“Four,” she answered quickly. It was strange to remember those clumsy, teenage embraces now, with the man that had already known so much more of her flesh only a few inches from her._ _

__“Then I think we are more than even on past transgressions,” he muttered darkly. Christine grimaced. “As I said, you’re about to be late,” Erik reminded her, triggering the mirror._ _

__He let finally let go of her and Christine nearly fell back into the dark dressing room. He did not say another word as the mirror closed. Christine didn’t even bother lighting the gaslights before leaving. It would only make her tardier and remind her that she was in the real world again, where her jealousy was absurd and dangerous. She didn’t want to see her reflection in the mirror or catch a glimpse of her father’s picture on the vanity, staring at her with dismay._ _

__

__Erik had an immediate and pronounced desire to hit something, which only made him feel more like an idiot. Of all the stupid things to say, he had to have chosen that. There were so many terrible things in his past she could hate him for, but he never thought to count his brief and disappointing experiences with the flesh among those crimes._ _

__His hands contracted into fists as he stalked behind the wall away from Christine’s dressing room and vaguely in the direction the manager’s office. It would be a blessed distraction to check on them._ _

__“Monsieur, you can’t be back here!”_ _

__Erik stopped at the sound of the familiar voice. It was Christine’s dresser and she sounded particularly annoyed. That would not do; Christine seemed to regard the girl as a friend, so by extension the she was under his protection._ _

__Erik peered through the nearest chink in the wall. Julianne was blocking someone’s path, though he could not tell who it was._ _

__“I was told patrons were given some leeway.”_ _

__Erik’s felt his blood begin to boil. It was the boy. The one Christine had kissed._ _

__“ _Make him disappear and you’ll earn three times your salary this week_ ,” Erik whispered, throwing his voice with expert skill so only the girl would here. _ _

__“I don’t care, rules are rules,” Julianne shot back, defiant and unimpressed._ _

__“Whose rules? The managers will tell you…” Julianne turned so that Erik could see her sneer as she laughed. It also afforded him a pleasing view of the boy’s dejected frown._ _

__“No one cares what those fools say,” Julianne mocked him. “There are far more powerful things here than managers. Now, if you don’t leave immediately, I will call someone to escort you.”_ _

__“You can’t do that!” the boy protested half-heartedly._ _

__“Try me.” Julianne’s face was absolutely serious. The boy seemed to deflate, and Erik smiled. He did like imagining Alonzo throwing the little fop on to the curb, but this was probably better. “And don’t try finding her in rehearsal either, that’s closed too,” Julianne added as the boy began to turn._ _

__“To everyone?” he asked, clearly aggravated to be thwarted before even trying._ _

__“Oh no, Monsieur, just to those that are _not wanted_.” _ _

__Erik considered quadrupling the girl’s salary, if just for the look of horrified confusion on the boy’s face. He fought the urge to laugh as the boy skulked away._ _

__“Thank you,” he whispered to the dresser through the walls._ _

__“At your service, sir,” Julianne replied quietly, not missing a beat. “Hers as well.”_ _

__Erik watched her curiously as she walked away, her face calm and unreadable. Liberating some funds to reward her from the manager’s office would be another good distraction, though his mood had grown much lighter. At least now he knew Christine would not be seeing the damn boy today._ _

__

__“I wonder if you’ll get tired of playing the same characters,” Robert Rameau commented languidly in the direction of Christine and Carlos Fontana as he closed his score. Christine raised an eyebrow, not quite understanding. “You’re always playing the virginal young thing and the cad that corrupts her,” the bass explained. “It’s as if the managers know something.”_ _

__“Shut up, hunchback,” Fontana scowled, snapping his score closed. “These roles were set before our new prima donna joined us.”_ _

__“Of course they were, my mistake,” Rameau almost purred._ _

__Christine tried to avoid both men’s gazes by looking at the other principals who were leaving the rehearsal. Marianne, the mezzo who would be singing the part of Maddalena, caught Christine’s eye and gave her a sneer. Christine sighed, closing her own score._ _

__“She doesn’t like you,” Rameau muttered in her ear, coming up behind her._ _

__“What have I done to her?” Christine asked dejectedly._ _

__“You drove Carlotta out when no one else could,” Rameau explained with a shrug as the older woman left the rehearsal room, Fontana following behind. “You’re the talk of Paris and she can’t even tell herself that she’s a better singer than you.” Christine shook her head, wondering if there would ever be an end to the intrigues. “Don’t worry about her, I like you. And she’ll always hate me more.”_ _

__“Why is that?” Christine asked, smiling at the man who would be playing her father in a few days. The devil’s smile was still easy for him though._ _

__“Let us say, she does not approve of the company I keep,” Rameau answered thoughtfully._ _

__A polite cough drew their attention to the door. It was Moncharmin, holding an envelope and looking rather flustered._ _

__“Monsieur Moncharmin, come to check on your newest star?” Rameau greeted him easily._ _

__Moncharmin gave a curt nod. “Monsieur Rameau, Mademoiselle Daaé.”_ _

__Christine wondered why such terse politeness would make Rameau smile so slyly._ _

__“I have your back pay, for the last two performances,” Moncharmin explained, handing her the envelope and distracting her._ _

__“I’m sure it’s quite generous,” Rameau commented cheerfully. Moncharmin gave a rather agitated sigh._ _

__“I had also wished to discuss what you will be singing at the gala, after the masquerade in two weeks,” Moncharmin continued. “I had thought that the Jewel song would be appropriate, since Marguerite has been such a famous role for you already, and since we have decided to move up the new production of La Traviata, it might do well to give them something from that.”_ _

__“You’re moving up Traviata?” Christine asked in shock. Even Rameau’s eyebrows were raised._ _

__“Oh yes, well, it seemed like Violetta would be a wonderful showcase for you,” the manager muttered. “It will open before Easter. Anyway, let me know what you prefer for the gala and I will discuss it with Bosarge.”_ _

__“Of course…” Christine stared after the manager as he turned on his heel and left without further ado. Christine felt like she was in a dream as she too left the room, Rameau following beside her in the hall._ _

__“Well, you’re moving from a corrupted virgin to a virtuous whore, I’d say that’s an improvement.” Rameau chuckled. “Huh. I wonder what he is doing so far from the stage.”_ _

__Christine followed Rameau’s gaze. Joseph Buquet, the grimy chief of the flies was staring at them from farther down the hall. There was something cold in his eyes that made Christine grateful Rameau was beside her._ _

__“I’m not sure,” Christine muttered, wondering if it would be worth mentioning to Erik._ _

__“Well, we’ve all seen stranger things around here,” Rameau shrugged and gave Christine a meaningful look. She gave him a grudging smile – there was something about him that reminded her a bit of Erik. He knew he was a rogue and was not afraid of it._ _

__“Indeed we have,” she agreed._ _

__

__Raoul shook his head and kicked the wall listlessly. No one had come out of the Opera in over half an hour and it was getting dark. He was not dressed warmly enough to wait on the avenue much longer, he thought bitterly, blowing on his hands. He had thought to spend the day in the Opera, not another one outside, watching the doors beneath the grand loggia, as long dead composers stared down at him._ _

__“You didn’t find her, did you?” The question startled Raoul and he spun to see the source of the voice. It was the foreigner, the one who was talked to Christine and supposedly work for this ridiculous ghost. His expression was calm and shrewd._ _

__“Didn’t find who?” Raoul asked suspiciously._ _

__“Christine Daaé,” the man answered smoothly and Raoul frowned. “She did not go in or out of the employee’s entrance either, if you were wondering.”_ _

__“She was in rehearsal though,” Raoul stammered, the encounter with Christine’s maid still stinging his memory._ _

__“Yes she was,” the man replied._ _

__“What do you want with her?” Raoul demanded, trying to understand why the man was telling him this if he was working for the supposed phantom._ _

__“I’m not sure,” the man sighed and gave Raoul the impression he was being quite honest. “I actually just wanted to warn you.”_ _

__“Warn me?” Raoul parroted, a knot of worry beginning to form in his stomach. The man nodded slowly. “Is this going to be another stupid ghost story?” Raoul snapped._ _

__“Be careful of who hears you talking like that, especially inside those walls,” the man murmured, mildly amused or impressed. Raoul felt his anger rising; utterly sick of being kept in the dark._ _

__“Tell me what you know,” he ordered but the man shook his head._ _

__“I can’t do that, sir, it is far too dangerous. As I said, I wanted to warn you, if you do decide to start chasing after ghosts, you must be prepared to face death.” Raoul’s mouth hung slack as the man gave a small bow and turned away._ _

__Raoul set his chin firmly. He had to find a way to reach Christine before her next performance. There had to be a way to get her out of the Opera if he could not get in. The warning had done the opposite of what it had been intended to do – it had made him a hundred times more committed to finding Christine and saving her. Raoul paused before turning to head home, the knot in his insides tightening a bit. What if that had been the point?_ _

__

__Christine chewed slowly, staring at the fire as she finished what passed for a supper in the house on the lake. She had been doing a very good job at avoiding actually talking since they had returned home. She had wanted to tell Erik the news about La Traviata, but the words had dried on her tongue as she remembered that Erik might have personal knowledge of the lives of courtesans. Nor had she been able to tell him about Joseph Buquet, since the thought of the chief of the flies reminded her or Erik’s face and all the horror that came with it._ _

__“Are you still mad at me?”_ _

__Christine looked up at the question. Erik was standing by the great pipe organ, absently leafing through a sheaf of music._ _

__“I’m not mad,” she replied a bit too quickly to be totally believable. She sank a bit lower into her accustomed seat on the couch as he gave her a doubtful look. “It’s quite hard to stay mad at you for too long, I am finding,” she added more honestly and earned a small smile. “I thought you were still mad at me.”_ _

__“Staying angry at you is even harder,” he answered easily. Christine relaxed, soothed by the gentle tone of his words._ _

__“And you’re not mad at me for talking to Robert Rameau alone?”_ _

__“Robert Rameau is fucking Armand Moncharmin. I don’t think I need fear any competition from him,” Erik replied, striding slowly towards her._ _

__“He’s _what_?” Christine gasped. “Well I guess that explains some things. How did you know?” _ _

__Erik came to a stop, standing behind her so she had to crane her head to see him. “The ghost knows everything that happens in the Opera,” he answered deviously, and Christine rolled her eyes with a scoff. “Just as I know about your newest role. We should start working on Violetta very soon.”_ _

__Christine opened her mouth to protest, but Erik hooked a cool finger beneath her chin before she could turn away._ _

__“I know about them because Moncharmin looks at him the same way you look at me.”_ _

__Christine felt gooseflesh rise on her skin as she stared into his blue eyes. She wondered if she was looking at him that way now. She watched the look in his eyes change gradually from one of adoration to pure desire and knew she was._ _

__Erik slowly unfurled his thin hand and gently caressed her neck, sending a shiver through her body as he did. She leaned back her head and closed her eyes as his hand moved to her chest, exploring her uncovered skin. She caught her breath as his fingers traced the neckline of her dress, the tentatively move beyond it with infinite care._ _

__She felt him bending closer to her, his other hand sliding down her arm. She bit her lip to keep from making a sound as one hand found her breast and the other settled on her hip. She felt the mask cold against her neck and her eyes flew open again, staring at the exquisite painted sky on the ceiling._ _

__“Do you miss the real stars?” She did not realize she had asked it aloud until she heard the trembling sound of her voice. Erik froze but did not withdraw his hands._ _

__“I can see the stars when I wish,” he replied curiously. “Some lights are just as lovely though.”_ _

__Christine caught his free hand in hers, holding on tight as the sound of his voice made the air go out of the room._ _

__“How?” she demanded breathlessly. “How can you see the stars?”_ _

__“The roof,” he whispered in her ear and pressed his hand closer to her breast, so that her whole body rose to meet the touch. The momentum was enough to help her pull away, leaning forward and leaving his hands suddenly empty. She heard him take a labored breath._ _

__“Show me,” she commanded, standing and moving to where their cloaks waited by the door without even waiting for him. “I’ve never been up to the roof and it was clear today,” she continued as she wrapped herself in the black fabric. She finally worked up the will to turn at look at him._ _

__His shoulders were hunched tensely, but there was resigned patience in his eyes. She wondered how much more patience he had left._ _

__“Show me your stars, Erik.”_ _

__

__Erik was incredibly glad to reach the cold, fresh air of the roof. The assent from the cellars had been difficult, at first, thanks to the physical frustration Christine had left him with. It was impossible to even be angry with her however, since he had seen such apologetic care in her face every time he had looked at her. He breathed in the night air and listened to her gasp in awe as she stepped out beside him._ _

__“Mother of God,” Christine whispered. He turned to watch her as she moved farther from the door and up the sloping copper roof towards the dome that rested on the building like a crown._ _

__She had been right: it was a beautiful clear night and a sliver of moon hung in the East. The stars shone down benignly over the flickering lights of the city that seemed to go on forever._ _

__“I know Paris is the biggest city in the world, but I never imagined it was like this…”_ _

__“One day soon it will be even brighter,” Erik told her as her studied her beautiful face in the faint moonlight. It was the first time he had ever looked at her outside. “There will be electric lights everywhere, so bright you won’t even be able to see the stars from the street.”_ _

__“That’s awful,” Christine muttered, looking wistfully at the sky._ _

__“That is what they call progress,” he agreed ruefully. He listened to the sounds of the city below, the rumble of carriage wheels on cobblestones, the distant noise of voices fighting or rejoicing, he could not tell which, and the quiet song of the wind._ _

__“Do you come up here often?” Christine asked dreamily. She was listening to the stillness as well._ _

__“Sometimes; at night when my mind won’t still or when I want to feel free,” he answered softly._ _

__“Only at night?” she asked, turning to him in surprise._ _

__He nodded, wondering why she had thought otherwise._ _

__She regarded him thoughtfully. “How long has it been since you saw the sun?”_ _

__“I see the sun all the time,” he frowned._ _

__“I don’t mean through a window or clouds or from the shadows,” she countered. “When was the last time you felt the sun on your skin?”_ _

__He stared at her, wondering if she had some secret for finding the most painful questions today. “Six and half years.”_ _

__“When you came to the Opera?” Erik nodded._ _

__“I came here at night, but that day…it was the last time I saw sunlight.” Even after so many years trying to forget, the memory of the sun on his face still burned._ _

__“Will you ever tell what happened that day?” she asked gently, as if reading the pain from his thoughts._ _

__“Why don’t you ask?”_ _

__“Because important things must be given.” Erik looked away. The truth, a kiss, another night in her arms – they all had to be earned, but could not be asked for._ _

__“Will you stay with me again tonight?” he breathed, glad there was one plea he could make with out fear of being refused. Her hand slipped gently into his._ _

__“Yes.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Erik and Christine sing together is "La ci darem la mano," from Don Giovanni.


	8. Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine makes a request, a mistake and a gesture.

“Meg, where on earth are you going so early?” her mother asked, more faintly amused than concerned.

“I’m meeting someone,” Meg answered, straightening the collar of her pale pink dress again. She had bought it yesterday. It had cost her two old dresses and all the money she had saved for three months, but it was lovely. It was like something Christine would wear, she had thought when she saw it in the shop window. She was sure he would like it.

“Your friend the singer? I thought you said she was missing.” 

Meg shook her head, trying not to laugh in giddy excitement.

“Oh no, she’s been coming to rehearsals,” Meg explained, catching her mother’s look of concern over her shoulder in the dingy mirror they kept. “Not that she’s had any time for me now that she’s a great star,” Meg added with a sigh. 

“Then who are you seeing? Is it a boy?” Meg turned to her mother and grinned. “Meg, you must be careful.”

“It’s not like that, Mama,” Meg reassured her mother quickly. “I don’t even think he realizes I’m a girl. I’m just helping him, as a friend.” Meg did not want to say out loud that she hoped today would be the day he realized otherwise.

“Well, be back by dark,” her mother sighed, taking a seat by their smoky old stove and returning to her embroidery. 

Meg gave a small jump as she grabbed her shawl and ran out the door. Yes, perhaps today would be the day when Raoul De Chagny saw that there were other girls in the Opera; ones who actually wanted to be near him, who would in fact do anything to be closer to him.

 

Christine knew it was time to leave, but she could not stop staring at him as he slept beside her. 

_What on earth are you doing, you stupid girl?_ She asked herself again. _You can’t go on like this much longer. You must either be with him, or don’t come back_. 

The thought of not returning and the suffering it would cause for Erik made her heart ache unexpectedly in her chest. She couldn’t do that to him and she was not ready to give up believing in her angel. 

_Then just give in_ , the voice in her head insisted. She shook her head. There was something keeping her from that as well.

She continued to watch him. The smooth white surface of the mask was implacable. Had he made it, she wondered? How many masks had he worn in his life? How many more still lay ahead of him? How awful must it be, to never even feel the air on one’s face. She lifted her hand, touching the hard surface tenderly with her fingertips. 

Erik’s eyes flew open and before she could even react his hand was locked on her wrist. Christine gasped at the sudden fury in his eyes that seemed not to recognize her. 

“I’m sorry! I wasn’t going to…” Erik released her instantly, his hand shaking. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you didn’t mean to do anything,” he consoled her, his breath coming with difficulty as he calmed and rose slightly.

“Do you always sleep with it on?”

“If I can help it,” he answered, as if the answer was incredibly obvious. 

“And you wore it when you were with those…other women?” 

Erik stared at her; clearly shocked that she had actually asked such a thing. Christine was beginning to reconsider talking at all so soon after waking up.

“Of course,” he replied at last. Christine nodded slowly as she rose from the bed, fighting very hard to keep her thoughts inside her head. “Why does that matter?” 

Christine bit her lip. “It means I don’t have to be jealous.” 

Erik sat up, his head tilting. “You had nothing to be jealous of,” he told her, reaching for her as she left his bed. “Being with you was…”

“It means they weren’t with you,” she cut him off and turned away from his look of further confusion. “They were with someone you pretended to be, not you,” she explained softly, beginning to realize herself why the mask had begun to preoccupy her so much in the last few days.

“By that logic I was never with you,” he stated flatly. 

Christine glanced at him over her shoulder, remembering the first night in his bed, when he had worn the mask and had not kissed her. “No, you weren’t.” 

She turned and left without another word, refusing to see the pain she knew would be in his eyes. They had slept late again she noted as she made her way to her room. It was only an hour before rehearsal was set to begin. 

She forced herself not to think of him as she washed and dressed. She was not sure if the prospect of another long day in the world above was daunting or a blessed relief. What would everyone be whispering while they watched her sing? God, if only they knew the truth, then they would certainly have something to talk about. 

She was buttoning her dress when she sensed him watching her and froze.

“How do you always know?” he asked softly from the shelter of her door.

“I can just…feel it,” she answered, rather perplexed herself. She had always thought before that the uncanny feeling of when her angel was watching was due to his supernatural nature, but she knew that was not true now. “Maybe it’s magic.”

“You haven’t worn that one before,” he remarked as he stepped into the room, surveying her with satisfaction. 

The dress was a beautiful shade of amber, with flared sleeves and a neckline that would make Adele proud. Christine blushed as she rushed to finish the buttons up the front. 

“You need something to go with it though.” 

Christine did not have time to ask what he meant before he stepped behind her and out of her vision. She held her breath as his hands slid over her shoulders, barely touching her before they came together in front of her. He pressed his fingers together then pulled them apart, a sparkling necklace of gold and pearl appearing as he did so. Christine gasped.

“How…” She gave up the question. She didn’t want to know the secret of his magic either. She tried to keep herself from leaning back into his arms as he delicately fastened the gift around her neck. His fingertips lingered on her skin as he finished.

“Christine…” he whispered plaintively.

“We should be going,” she blurted out, abruptly moving towards the door as Erik sighed, clearly frustrated.

“Where will you hide next?” he inquired coolly, following her as she walked shakily to the main room. “The performance tomorrow should be a good distraction, but I’m curious as to where you will ask to run off to this evening.”

“Erik, I…” she stammered, grabbing her cloak and gripping it tightly, leaning on the door for support.

“You can’t hide forever.” His voice held more darkness than she had heard in days.

“Says the man who has made an art of hiding from the world,” she retorted, trying to sound offended but only achieving ineffective petulance.

“What will it take?” he demanded vehemently. 

She spun to face him and was stunned by how close he was. She shrank as he loomed over her, reminding her of his height, his eyes stern and reproachful. 

“You can’t lie to me any more. What do you need? Conditions? A price? A reason? Just _tell me_.”

“I…I just…” Christine faltered, searching madly for such an excuse. Erik drew closer to her, forcing her against the door out to the lake, his entire form tense with impatience and his eyes shining with want. “I just need time.” 

Christine jumped as Erik slammed his hand against the wall beside her. He pulled his cape roughly from the hook and opened the door, sighing furiously. Christine bit her lip as she followed him into the dark; glad she had forgotten to eat, since her stomach was tight and unsettled with fear and shame. 

He said nothing as he poled them across the lake, nor as he guided them up through the dark. He didn’t take her hand at all; which made her feel even guiltier. 

“I think you can find the way from here,” Erik muttered as they reached a familiar gloomy flight of stairs. 

She stared at his mask, since he would not look her in the eye as he handed her the lantern.

“Yes,” she whispered and he began to turn away. “I meant yes, I have a condition.” 

He regarded her suspiciously, moving back close to her. 

She tried not to let her voice shake too much as she continued. “You’re right, I can’t lie and tell you I don’t want…to be with you. But if it happens, I want…” she stopped as his eyes widened in anticipation. “I want to be with you, not a dream or an illusion or a lie; that would be cruel and wrong and I don’t want to hurt you any more than I have already.”

“I don’t understand…”

“I’ll be with you if you take off the mask.” 

Erik fell back as if she had struck him, shaking his head in horror. “Please, ask anything else. Please…” he begged thinly. 

Christine shook her head, finding strength in her resolve. He seemed near collapse as he backed away from her, retreating into the dark. For a second all she could see was the mask and his glittering eyes, staring at her though the shadows, and then they too disappeared. 

Christine turned slowly and began unsurely up the stairs. The dark passages were much more frightening and confusing without him there, but she eventually found her way to the mirror. She put out the lantern and stepped into the real world, even more confused and unsure, than she had been the day before. He had not even asked her to come back, she realized, nor had he said where to find him if she chose to. 

She fingered the necklace at her throat as she walked slowly through the twisting, claustrophobic backstage halls. They were crowded with people making their way to the rehearsal, gossiping and laughing, warming up and greeting friends. She jumped as an unwashed form suddenly blocked her way. She looked up into Joseph Buquet’s leering, bearded face.

“Well aren’t those are pretty,” he sneered, gazing at her chest.

“Get out of my way,” Christine snapped, trying to get around.

“Or what?” the master of the flies challenged her, placing a burly arm in her path. Christine glared at him and he laughed, his breath stinking of stale liquor. “Will I end up like Carlotta?”

“There you are!” 

Christine spun to see Adele approaching behind her. 

“I’ve been looking for you,” Adele quipped. 

Buquet quickly retreated as the other singer came up beside her and Christine looked back at him. He gave a sarcastic bow before turning away and Christine fought the urge to shudder. 

“Why on earth was that beast talking to you?”

“I don’t know,” Christine muttered. Adele shrugged, already bored.

“You know, Valerius might re-let your room if you don’t come back some time soon,” Adele told her casually as they continued towards the stage. 

“Bloody hell, is there anyone is Paris that does not care where I’m sleeping?” Christine huffed and Adele raised an eyebrow.

“Well, everyone loves a good mystery,” Adele smirked. 

 

Erik sank down in the darkness, his back against the unyielding stone wall and his breath coming ragged and fast. 

Of all the things in the world for her to ask it had to be _that_. He would have killed if she had asked, given her any treasure or promise she could name, but this…

Didn’t she understand how long he had hidden? She had seen him and not run; touched his accursed face with tenderness, but he had known even without looking that there was disgust and horror in her eyes when she did so. How could this be her price?

He threw his head back, fighting a wave of sickness at the memory of his reflection. He had the urge to run as far from the Opera as possible, lose himself in the depths of Paris and become the terror he knew he would always be. There were places where brutality and darkness flourished beneath the streets even as the sun blazed above. 

He sprang up, resolved to destroy something or someone immediately. His hands contracted into firsts as he set out in the dark and he felt the bandages still wrapped delicately around his left palm. 

_You must not hurt yourself like this, ever again._

He nearly doubled over at the memory of her command, striking his fist uselessly against the obstinate stone of the cellar walls. He swore in several languages under his breath, furious she had deprived him even of the release of violence. Was this why she had asked him, to force him to remember? Or had she chosen her condition knowing it was impossible, so she would never have to give in? 

_Do as you are told, you little demon, or it will be the mirror._ Erik’s grew sick just remembering her voice. 

_Just take it off, boy, we won’t be angry with you. We know you’re hungry, take it off and we’ll take care of you._ Erik recoiled as a cage clanged shut in his memory over howls of laughter and screams. 

_Show him, Erik, before you do it, so he will know that death is coming._

He began to run again, desperately trying to escape the cascade of remembrance. 

_Take it off, and give us our money’s worth, monster._

The voices followed him across the lake and into his home. 

_No, forgive me, my angel._

Erik tore the crimson score from the shelf, though he was barely able to focus on the notes written in blood red ink. The first chord bellowed from the organ like a scream. 

 

Christine lay dead on the stage, listening to the final crescendo from the orchestra, appreciating how it vibrated through the hollow space beneath her. 

“ _The curse_!” Rameau sang out piteously above her as Verdi’s music came to a close. 

Christine lay still as the sound faded and a smattering of applause came from the chorus and the few stagehands that were watching. The chorus had barely anything to do in _Rigoletto_ , but they had all seemed very interested in watching the rehearsal nonetheless.

“Excellent,” Bosarge grinned, tapping his baton on the podium for attention. Christine rose with Rameau’s help. “Arrive early tomorrow for final notes, and I think we shall have another triumph on our hands. Until then, everyone is dismissed.” 

Christine looked down. Once again, she could not feel Erik watching. Would he be waiting for her behind the mirror or would she have to return to the dark alone. Did she have to return?

“Don’t go yet!” 

Christine turned and smiled tiredly as Meg ran up behind her. The dancer was dressed quite prettily and her face was eager and unsure. 

“I’m not letting you disappear again before talking to me properly,” Meg declared.

“I’ve been a terrible friend haven’t I?” Christine asked sheepishly.

“Since you became ‘the angel,’ yes,” Meg confirmed tartly and Christine gave a dry laugh. The soubriquet she’d been given amused her to no end. Meg smiled back at her.

“I’m sorry, Meg, truly. So much has changed,” she murmured, glancing to the wings then to the flies. She did not see Erik’s silhouette, as she had vainly hoped, but did see Buquet staring down. She shuddered.

“Come to supper with me then and make up for it,” Meg prompted and Christine looked back at her as she considered the offer. It would clear her mind to get out of the Opera and spend time with someone who was in no danger of making her scream, cry or go mad.

“I can’t stay out too late,” she agreed reluctantly and Meg gave a little squeal. 

“Well, come on then!” Meg commanded, grabbing Christine and barely giving her time to snatch her cloak as they fled the stage. “I’m glad you said yes, without a fight. I don’t know what I would have done if you had said no – I was even considering saying my mother was sick and needed your help, though I wasn’t sure if you would believe me. Have you heard the latest rumor about Carlotta? She’s been confined to her flat! The only one who visited her is Monsieur Richard! Can you believe that!” 

Christine shook her head as Meg’s chatter continued all the way through the grand foyer and out of the front entrance of the Opera, a rather curious route for performers like them.

“Meg, I thought you meant to take supper at your home,” Christine inquired hesitantly as the crossed the Place de L’Opera to the café located in the Grand Hotel across the way. “I don’t think we can afford this.”

“We don’t have to.” Meg pushed Christine through the door in front of her and Christine froze as Raoul rose from a secluded booth at the back.

“Meg! You little sneak!” she chided half-heartedly. Meg ignored her and continued to steer her stubbornly in Raoul’s direction, which Christine did not resist. 

“Thank you, Mademoiselle Giry,” Raoul smiled warmly. “I knew you could be counted on.” Christine looked between the two of them: Meg looked as if she was expecting more praise, but Raoul had already turned his attention away from the blonde dancer. He offered Christine a seat at the table and she hesitated. 

“I don’t know, Raoul…” 

“Please, Christine, just give me an hour,” he begged, his eyes utterly sincere and caring.

“I’ll be keeping watch, no one will disturb you,” Meg piped in, sounding taken aback at Christine’s hesitancy.

Christine looked back over her shoulder at the hulking edifice of the Opera waiting for her in the twilight. Where was Erik? Had he reconsidered her condition or had he disappeared into the dark? He had not asked her to come back and he had seemed so upset. It was better to wait…

“Fine,” Christine sighed, taking the seat as Meg and Raoul grinned.

“I’ll leave you two alone then,” Meg proclaimed proudly and strutted away.

“I am sorry for the subterfuge,” Raoul explained as he sat across from her, gazing at her with untroubled contentment. “I didn’t think you would have come if I had asked, and I couldn’t get in otherwise.”

“Couldn’t get in?” Christine echoed with a frown.

“I was told very clearly that I was not allowed or wanted anywhere near you in the Opera,” he confessed bashfully. “I still can’t begin to guess what I did you offend you…”

“Nothing,” Christine answered swiftly. “You’ve done nothing.” _Except care for me_ , she added in her mind. How Erik had managed to ban Raoul from the theater she did not know, but it certainly made her pleased that she had decided to stay. 

 

Erik drew back from the organ with a wince of pain. Was the blood on the keys a dream? It was on his hands too and it was real: some of the cuts Christine had so carefully tended had reopened. She would be very displeased with that. 

He closed the score in front of him. It didn’t matter if he got blood on that at least, there was so much there already. He rose shakily and returned the monstrous music to its place safe among his more civilized compositions, where Christine would never hear it. 

He looked around, feeling as if he was waking from a terrible dream. Half the candles in the room had burnt out and his body was aching and weak. How long had he been playing? The hour on the clock startled him. Rehearsal would have ended ages ago! 

Where was she? He flew to the door, grabbing his cape and hat as well as, for once, gloves. Where would she have gone? Had he lost her without even knowing it?

 

If Raoul had experienced a happier handful of hours in the last few years, he could not remember them. Christine had wanted to know everything that had passed in his life since they had parted on the road outside Perros when they were sixteen, swearing to never forget each other. He probably talked far too much, but she had encouraged him and shared her own stories when prompted. 

It was as if they were reuniting for the first time and everything was as it should have been if she had not disappeared that first night. She smiled and laughed and he felt like he was the only man in the world.

“Oh dear, it’s become very dark,” Christine noted as she glanced out the window. “I really must go…”

“I wish you would stay,” Raoul sighed and Christine went a bit pale at the words. 

“I have to go,” she muttered more firmly, standing and retrieving her long black cloak.

“But we haven’t even talked about how you came to Paris, or how you got on the stage,” Raoul ventured. 

“We don’t need to talk about that,” Christine muttered, sweeping the long cloak around her shoulders. Raoul frowned. Her expression had become as dark and troubled as it had been when she had abandoned him at the party. Christine strode through the nearly empty café to where Meg had stationed herself.

“Let me take you home in my carriage at least, it’s dangerous to walk alone,” he offered. 

“No, thank you, I don’t mind walking.” Meg popped up and looked at them in confusion. “Perhaps you can take Meg home instead, she lives farther away…” 

“You’re not going home are you?” he asked bluntly and Christine’s face fell. 

“I have been…staying with a friend.” Raoul scowled. 

“Where does your angel of music live? Perhaps I can take you there directly.” Raoul was not prepared for the look of horror on Christine’s face when he said the bitter words.

“I told him. I’m sorry…” Meg explained uneasily as Christine stared at him, growing even paler.

“Told him _what_?” Christine demanded, visibly shaking.

“About your teacher…” the dancer squeaked.

“Meg, you bloody fool!” Christine snapped and Meg jumped back. 

“Christine, it’s not her fault!” Raoul exclaimed reaching for Christine, but she recoiled, drawing her arms under the heavy fabric of her cloak. “I wanted to know, I was worried for you. If you have been with an unscrupulous man…”

“That’s rich, from a patron bent on winning a new prize,” Christine spat back, retreating further.

“What?” Raoul gasped. “Is that what you think of me?”

“I’m not some romantic fool, Raoul, I know the most we could ever be,” she looked darkly at Meg then out the window in the direction of the Opera. “Anything else is a dream. You don’t think I know that you’re hiding from your family? That if they knew you were with me know they’d probably have me arrested?” 

“Christine…” Raoul could only watch as she read the defeat in his face. He reached out to her uselessly again as she turned and swept out of the café, pulling her hood over her face as she did.

“Won’t you go after her?” Meg asked timidly from beside him. Raoul shook his head slowly.

“What would be the use? I wouldn’t find her.”

 

The horses whinnied in agitation as Christine rushed through the stables towards Erik’s secret door. Her key worked perfectly and she thanked God that there was a lantern waiting on the rusted hook. Her hands were shaking so badly it took her several tries to get the thing lit. At least the fear of venturing into the depths alone was enough to drive back her anger at Meg and her confusing feelings for Raoul.

“Just keep going down, it can’t be that hard,” she told herself tremulously. 

She came to a junction she did not recognize almost immediately. Which way did he usually go? Left? Yes, she was almost sure it was left. Her surety evaporated quickly as she continued, her footsteps echoing ominously in the dark. Everything and nothing looked familiar, since every cold wall and piece of stone looked exactly alike in the meager light of the lantern.

“Where are you?” she asked the shadows, beginning to shake again. What if he had left to go after her? What if he knew where she had been? Would he go after Raoul? Was he still upset with her? God, he had seemed so heartbroken when she had asked to see him…

Christine stopped still in her tracks, listening to the dark. Had the sound she heard been an echo? No, it came again: footsteps, coming from somewhere ahead of her in the black. Erik never made a sound when he walked.

She turned and ran, trying to hide the light of her lantern from whoever had dared to enter Erik’s realm. Just the fact that they were there, alone, at night was enough to tell her they were incredibly brave, dangerous or both. She nearly stumbled down the stone steps, praying she was not making so much noise that they could follow. She took turns at random, not pausing to listen again until she had taken two more flights of stairs downward.

“Erik,” she whispered his name into the dark like it was a magic spell. “Please find me.” The only answer was the echo of her labored breath. She waited, her every muscle tense as she listened for another sound. The silence stretched out around her. Maybe she was safe. She lifted her lantern slowly.

“No,” a voice hissed from behind her. 

Christine tried to scream as a gloved hand covered her mouth. An arm locked around her, pulling her back and forcing her to drop the lantern, which sputtered into darkness. She struggled against her captor, completely blind and terrified. 

“Hush! He’s still coming.” 

Christine stopped moving immediately, at last recognizing the urgent whisper and the strong, thin arms around her. Slowly Erik moved his hand from her mouth.

They did not wait long before the sound of steps came again from the distance, slow and careful. Christine could make out a distant flicker of light coming down the stairs. Before she could panic Erik was pulling her slowly away from the light, holding on to her so tightly he was nearly lifting her from the ground. She realized quickly why he was doing it – it made her steps almost as quiet as his. They continued to back away as the light grew brighter. She felt a slight jolt and they stopped. They must have come to a wall.

“Don’t let go of me,” Erik ordered in her ear. Christine nodded. “Now.” 

They were off as fast as a gunshot, careening through the pitch darkness, down stairs and through tunnels, following a path Christine prayed Erik knew by heart. 

He caught her roughly as he came to an abrupt stop, pulling her back as her foot splashed into freezing water. They had found the lake. 

He nearly carried her to the secret door, not letting her go until they were safely locked behind it. Christine held on to the piano, panting and never happier to see the strange, windowless house.

“Who was that?” she asked as she caught her breath. Erik did not reply. He still seemed to be listening for something, lingering by the door.

“I couldn’t make him out very well,” Erik answered at last. “But he was certainly looking for something.”

“It wasn’t your Persian friend?” Christine pushed. Erik shook his head.

“Even if he was able to get in the building, he’s not that stupid.” 

Christine blinked, so Raoul was not the only one Erik was keeping out. The flare of indignation guttered immediately when Erik finally turned to look at her. His eyes behind the mask were as sad and lost as she had ever seen them. 

“Where did you go?” His voice was so timid and hurt.

“I didn’t know if you still wanted…” Christine stopped. She had known all along that he wanted her to come back, she had simply told herself otherwise. “I went to supper with Meg.” The lie tasted like bile on her tongue, but how could she tell him when she had hurt him so much already that day? How could she ever confess that Raoul had made her feel so free and bright for their fleeting hours together, before she had been reminded that it was all another fantasy? 

Erik turned away, apparently satisfied and slowly began to remove his hat and cape, then finally the gloves. Christine saw immediately why he had been wearing them.

“Erik, what happened?” she exclaimed, rushing to him.

“I was playing for too long, I guess,” he murmured, drawing back as she reached for him. 

Christine grabbed his wrist, refusing to let him hide. She examined the blood-soaked bandages and sighed, angrier with herself than him.

“Go sit down and wait for me,” she ordered, nodding to the couch. 

He complied as she quickly moved through the room, taking time to add more wood to the fire and light more candles to drive out the cold that had seeped in while she had been away. At last she sat across from him on the couch, taking his left hand and peeling off the old wrapping. 

“Does it hurt?” she asked, glad to see that it was only the one deep cut causing the most trouble.

“I’ve felt worse,” Erik deflected and Christine winced. She finished her work in silence and threw the discarded bandages into the fire, wishing she could make the whole mess of a day disappear just as easily and go back to standing with him beneath the shining winter sky. There would be no running away tonight. She glanced at him, noticing how the mask took on a golden color in the glow of the firelight.

Christine stood stiffly, unable to look him in the eyes. He didn’t even fully know how much she had injured him that day. How could she blame him for his lies, when she knew some lies were so much kinder than the truth?

“Why did you have to ask…for that?” Erik spoke at last, his voice strained.

“Because if I can’t be with you as you truly are, then I should not do be with you at all,” she answered simply. “I am trying to do one thing right.”

“But it’s impossible,” Erik objected. “You don’t understand what’s happened before. You can’t know…” 

“Have you so little faith in me?” she asked, turning back to him in surprise. He stood quickly, avoiding her gaze and retreating towards the organ. “Erik, I’ve seen you already.”

“No, you’ve looked,” he snapped coldly. “No one has ever _seen_.” 

Christine stared at his back, overcome by the sound of a lifetime of loneliness in his voice. She was not sure if it was her guilt, or her stubbornness, or her pity, or perhaps all of them together that pushed her towards him. 

All that mattered was that she for the first time in days, she was absolutely certain of what to do and that she had the strength to do it.

 

Erik flinched as her hand came to rest on his shoulder. A hundred vicious memories were warring in his skull, as loud as the music that he had bled for an hour before. He could not resist as she turned him to face her. Her expression was full of pity and something else he could not name, something like kindness but brighter. It made him catch his breath.

“I think you’re wrong,” she whispered. 

Erik stared at her, wishing he could understand what she meant or had the courage to tell every terrible crime and truth, so that she would understand. 

“I can see you,” she insisted and slowly her hand began to move from his shoulder to his face. He caught her wrist automatically.

“No…” he gasped, trying to pull back. She pressed closer, determined and bold, and set her hand calmly on his cheek. “Please.”

“Let me prove it to you,” she breathed. Her fingers fixed gently around the edge of the mask and Erik’s breath came panicked and shallow as she tenderly prized it from his face. 

A familiar terror filled him as he felt the air rush against his monstrous bare skin. He waited in dread for disgust and horror to fill her gaze, wishing he could look away. It was impossible to move though, as her forest eyes stared into his face, searching. He shuddered as she raised her free hand to touch his cheek, tracing one long terrible scar. How could she be so brave? 

Erik could see tears glistening in the corners of her eyes as she drew closer to him and continued to study his countenance. She was shaking too he realized, as she came even closer, pushing back his hair and depriving him of his last defense. He closed his eyes, unable to comprehend how she could look at him and not run, or bear her eyes reflecting his ugliness. He felt her breath on his skin, warm and gentle amidst the stark cold of his fear. His eyes flew back open in shock as he realized what it was she intended to do the instant before her lips pressed softly to his.

Erik felt as if his heart would shatter as the kiss lingered, sublime and terrifying. Her lips moved cautiously against his and the sensation was like an electric shock through his entire body. He tried to pull back, certain that the pain and ecstasy of the kiss would burn him alive at any moment, but she held on to him tightly, her fingers caught in his hair, refusing to let him run. 

He closed his eyes and surrendered into the embrace, treasuring the feel of her lips and her breath mingling with his. He was ready to die, his heart breaking and mending over and over again. When he tasted tears he was not sure who they belonged to. He drew in a jagged breath as she slowly pulled away. The reality of what she had just done rushed over him in a crushing wave and he fell back from her, his breath transforming into a sob. 

He stumbled towards the fireplace, tears blinding him as he turned away from her. He gripped the mantle, struggling for breath and clumsily toppling unseen art objects to the floor. He felt her hand on his arm and rounded on her. 

She tried to catch him, but he was already falling to his knees, his hands flying to his exposed face – the face she had looked at and kissed. She sank down with him as he collapsed to the floor, hanging on to her, sure he would drown if he let go.

“Erik…” He could hear that she was weeping too. 

He did not fight as she took him in her arms. There was no strength left in him to resist. He buried his face in her shoulder as she embraced him and felt her tears falling on his face. He was not sure how long he wept or how long she held him, safe in the firelight. There was nothing else in the world that mattered but her: her arms, her kiss, her tears, and her angel’s voice whispering softly in the dark. 

“Erik.”

“Exactly how long do you intend to keep up this foolishness?” Sabine’s voice was twice as cold as the night air Raoul had just entered from. He shrank as he removed his hat and handed it to a footman.

“I’m not sure what you’re…”

“Oh shut it, little brother,” Sabine barked, descending the great curved staircase towards the door. Raoul opened his mouth to protest as the servants quickly fled. “I know exactly where you’ve been all day. You never go anywhere else.”

“Where is…”

“Philippe is off groveling after his stupid dancer, so don’t expect him to leap in to save you either.” Raoul felt quite trapped as his sister advanced on him, imperious and livid. “I would understand this idiocy better if the little harlot was actually giving you her favors, but from what I understand she has other admirers she pays far much more mind to than you.”

“That’s not true!” Raoul bleated. “Christine is not like that!”

“You loved her when you were a child, Raoul, how can you possibly know what sort of woman she is now?” Sabine snapped back following her brother as he retreated into the lavish drawing room of the Chagny manor. “She is not like you or I, she was not raised to appreciate dignity or honor…”

“I don’t care, Sabine!” Raoul cried, stunning his sister into silence. “I’ve never cared about where she came from, or what she has done. I know she is not like us, I see that, and that is why I love her. Don’t you understand? There is no one else like her in the world, not for me.” Sabine stared at him, clearly horrified.

“Raoul, I know how you feel…” she attempted softly. “You don’t think I felt that way about Gustave?” Raoul balked. Sabine had not spoken her husband’s name for years. “But love like that is as painful as it is beautiful. Can you understand what it is to have your whole life built on one person…and then to lose them? Believe me, little brother, you will lose her.”

“No, I won’t let that happen,” Raoul argued steadfastly. “I am going to save her.” Raoul turned from his sister’s plaintive eyes. He could endure her anger easily, but her sadness was much harder to face. He did not even fully understand what sort of snare Christine had been caught in, but he knew in his very soul that he had to rescue her.

“What if she doesn’t want to be saved?” Sabine asked quietly as Raoul stalked from the room. He paused on the stair and turned back, feeling suddenly older and stronger as he looked grimly down at his sister’s concerned face. Slowly the concern seemed to melt into something new, something oddly like fear.

“I don’t care.”

 

Christine woke to music. She turned lazily in the bed, just listening to the mournful sound of Erik’s violin for a while as the world came slowly into focus. She vaguely remembered the feeling of being carried to her room and of Erik setting her down gently in her own bed. He had been the first to wake beside the fire, where they had fallen asleep as their tears ebbed at last. 

When she had felt him lifting her, so graceful and sure, she had been certain that their time had finally come, but he had simply laid her down, caressing her face as tenderly as the wind. Had she asked him aloud to stay with her? The memory of his tentative arms encircling her was as vivid as the feel of the linen sheets beneath her body at that instant, but waking without him beside her left her unsure.

She rose slowly from the bed, the melody from beyond her open door making her feel as if she was still half dreaming. Her dress was wrinkled and askew, but not even one button had been unfastened. She knew she should wash and change, but his music pulled her like the tide. 

Erik’s back was to her when he came into view. Christine found herself holding her breath as she waited for him to turn, wondering what it would feel like to see his face again, now that she had kissed him. The memory of the kiss sent a jolt up from her stomach, tingling through her bones and out through her skin. She had expected it to be terrifying, and in a way it had been the most frightening moment of her life, yet it had also felt so completely…right. 

Christine took a deep breath in awe as Erik finally turned so she could see him. He had left off the mask.

His lank, black hair fell in his face as his cheek pressed against the instrument, his eyes closed loosely as his bow moved across the strings. As he swayed with the melody, she wondered if he could feel her watching him, as she would have felt his eyes on her, but he seemed absolutely lost is the music. Even though the melody was full of aching, it was still so completely beautiful and as he played, she could see that for these fleeting moments, he was free. 

At last the final note quivered beneath his bow and he opened his eyes. They glowed with love and fear. Christine stared back at him with unbridled wonder.

“I was worried you might be displeased,” Erik confessed, indicating his hands. 

“I think that asking you not to play might be as useless as asking the sun not to rise,” Christine surrendered. “And besides, I could listen to you play forever.” 

“That would be heaven indeed,” Erik murmured as he set down the violin on its accustomed table. His mask rested beside it, waiting. Erik looked between it and Christine, clearly torn. 

“You weren’t there when I woke up,” she stated, stepping cautiously towards him, worried he would retreat from her if she drew too close too fast.

“I still don’t know what to say,” he whispered tightly. He fingered the mask and avoided her eyes as she finally arrived beside him. 

“You don’t have to say anything; I’ve already heard,” she countered, stroking the auburn wood of his violin. His fingers left the mask and came to rest gently on hers. 

“I wish we had more time before the performance,” he sighed. “I missed reading with you yesterday.” Christine tried to smile as she entwined her fingers with his.

“Aren’t you excited to hear me sing for you again?” 

“Oh yes,” Erik agreed, but there was still sadness in his voice. “But afterwards, they will take you from me again.”

“I won’t go if you don’t want me to.” Christine almost hoped he would ask; it might save her from seeing Raoul again and from being reminded of their brief, bright hours together and her lie.

“You know you have to go,” Erik countered. “There are already too many people concerned with your wellbeing.” His hand released hers and moved back to the mask; lifting it carefully back towards is face.

“You don’t…” Christine protested.

“Yes, I do,” he cut her off as she hesitated. “For now.” 

Christine watched, fighting between dejection and relief as he replaced the mask. He seemed to grow stronger and surer of himself before her eyes, the vulnerability and unease that had pervaded before disappearing along with his ugliness. 

“I should change…” Christine muttered and turned away. 

Erik caught her wrist gently, pulling her back to him. His eyes were calm and clear. “I will take it off,” he promised quietly. “Now that I know I can, I will take it off myself.” 

Christine caught her breath as his eyes warmed and his hand trailed subtly up her body until it rested on her cheek. 

Today, his fingers were not so cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written heavily under the influence of "Winter Song" by Sara Barelleis and Ingrid Michaelson.


	9. Until I Am Sleeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Then tell me a story and make me forget. Hold me while we wait. Hold me until I am sleeping.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content/Trigger warnings: attempted sexual assault. Violence.

Adele didn’t even know why she was bothering to warm up. There was so little for anyone in the female chorus to do in _Rigoletto_ , that there had been a seriously considered rumor that they were all to be replaced by members of the damn corps de ballet. 

It was a much better use of her time to abandon the dressing room she shared with Jeanette and explore the bustling halls. She did always enjoy the nervous, frantic energy before a performance, though not half as much as she enjoyed the hours after when Antoine would tell her how wonderful she had been. She was sure the man could not tell Verdi from Wagner, which made the lie so much sweeter.

“Has anyone seen her yet?” she asked Charles, who was busy straightening his doublet among a group of other basses.

“Oh yes, Franc said she was with all the other principals, calm as a queen,” Charles grumbled in reply. 

Adele smiled. That meant Christine was most likely in her distant dressing room, probably staring sadly at the walls, as she so often seemed to do when she thought no one was watching. 

The halls always seemed more deserted the nearer she came to Christine’s little corner of the world; as if the residency of the Opera’s newest diva there had not driven off the tales of the haunted mirror of dressing room thirteen. Come to think of it, “the angel’s” association with the room had made it even more infamous. Adele raised her hand below the brass number on the door.

“You seem nervous. You know you don’t need to be.” 

Adele froze with her hand in midair. That she was hearing an unfamiliar male voice in her friend’s dressing room was secondary to the fact that the voice was without doubt the most captivating she had ever heard.

“Tonight I have to impress them as a true artist, not a novelty,” Christine replied, her voice shy yet intimate. 

“You have never been a novelty,” the man reassured her with such incredible tenderness and affection it gave Adele gooseflesh. 

“And what about after?” Christine asked quietly. “After I come back to you, what will happen then?” 

“I told you…” 

Adele pressed her head against the wooden door, straining to hear, but the rest of the whisper was lost. 

“…tonight?” 

Adele raised her eyebrow at the muffled word. 

“Perhaps, angel,” the man answered solemnly. “How strange they chose that name for you. You are an angel, you know.” 

Adele caught her breath. Even without seeing them she could imagine the moment between Christine and her lover. There was no question in her mind that this was he.

“Sing for me again now, my angel of music.”

“For you, no one else.” 

Adele stumbled back from the door as she heard the sound of Christine moving to open it. She darted down the hall, suddenly ashamed of intruding on such a private moment. She turned so that it would seem as if she was just coming down the hall as Christine opened the door and tried not to be too obvious in attempting to catch a glance into the dressing room.

“Curtain in a few minutes,” Adele chimed, well practiced at sounding casual after hearing something she should forget. Christine gave a distracted smile. “Nervous?” 

Christine seemed to deeply consider the question as she joined Adele and they began to make their way towards the stage.

“Not anymore,” the angel answered at last, and for some reason, Adele felt suddenly cold.

 

Erik stared thoughtfully at his hands as he sat in the shadows of box five. Rigoletto and the assassin Sparafucile where comparing occupations. One killed with blades, the other wounded with words. It was strange, how words could wound more deeply than daggers sometimes. Of course it was not really words that would prove to be the hunchback’s curse in this tragedy, it was the poison of revenge. Erik knew this though and it did not hold his attention. He was only biding his time until Christine appeared.

She had kissed him, every time his mind strayed, the memory called to him. She had kissed him and still said that she would come back to him. Erik raised his hand and tentatively touched his lips, trying to remember every glorious detail.

“ _My father_!” Her voice rang through the auditorium like the sound of heaven and Erik’s heart leapt. He sensed the audience sitting up straighter in their seats, heard the whispers begin to quiet as Paris’ newest star took the stage. He had not even bothered to look at the audience tonight, and didn’t spare them a glance now. Her voice was all that mattered, the voice that belonged to him. Tonight, when the audience had disappeared, and the light had gone dark, she would still sing for him. When they returned to their gilded cages and cold beds, she would return to his. 

 

Moncharmin was quite sure he had never enjoyed a performance at the Opera more. No indisposed divas or voices in his ears tonight. Not even Richard had bothered to join him in the premier box. The man had been so engrossed in the books and other minutiae for the last few days that Armand had actually been able to get some work done as well, though things at the Opera seemed to be much more in control on the artistic side than the financial. 

Armand suppressed a small shudder as he thought of exactly how the musical integrity of the Opera seemed to have been maintained for the last few years. So many little notes in red ink on the chorus rosters or orchestra scores… Armand jumped to his feet and enthusiastically joined the ovation for Daaé and Robert as they took another bow. He knew the majority of the thunderous applause was for the soprano, who had indeed been magnificent, but Robert had sung with a depth and passion to match her and had also been superb.

He glanced across the theater to box five, something he had tried to keep himself from doing too much throughout the evening. It still looked as empty as it had before…

Armand blinked. He was almost sure he had seen something: the faintest silhouette moving in the shadows. He shook his head and returned to the applause. Robert was bowing to Christine and presenting her with a great bouquet of flowers that had appeared from somewhere, which drew more noise from the audience. Armand felt a strange pang as he looked down on them while the other principals rejoined them, then Robert looked up to where Armand stood, still clapping. He was no surer that he saw Robert wink than he had been of seeing the shadow move in box five.

 

Shaya kept his head down as he slipped backstage. He had paid an exorbitant amount to get there tonight and he was determined to make the most of it. 

“How does she make it seem so easy?” someone was asking enthusiastically as Shaya pressed past a group. 

“She was just remarkable! And no one even knows where she was trained!” a lower voice agreed. “I heard it was the conservatoire, but no one from there has made any noise about claiming her…” 

Shaya continued on. These were all old rumors about Daaé that he had already heard. As usual the most well known thing about the girl was that no one seemed to really no much about her at all. She had a few friends and was regarded as strange, yet still generally well liked, though there had been a new tone of fear in some voices when they talked about her after Carlotta’s fall. Of course, it was not really Christine that they were afraid of; it was the ghost that was said to be either her slave or her protector, depending on the storyteller.

Shaya turned another corner down a less crowded hall and nearly ran into a female figure. He froze as he looked into the pretty face to apologize. At last God had decided to grant him some luck. Christine Daaé looked much less pale and troubled than when he had last encountered her, but she seemed just as shocked to see him as he was to find her so easily.

“You…” she whispered, her eyes wide. 

“Mademoiselle, I had not thought I should be so lucky as to find you again,” Shaya replied, bowing from the waist.

“I did not think you were even allowed in here,” she retorted stiffly. 

Shaya raised an eyebrow; he had not expected such outright coldness. “Gold makes a good key.” 

The girl scowled. It did little to diminish her beauty. She was wearing a dress of blood red taffeta that created a very pleasing effect, accentuated by the necklace of gold and pearl at her throat. 

“Mademoiselle, I had hoped to speak with you, though perhaps outside the Opera…”

“You can speak to me here,” she snapped. Something in her stern expression gave Shaya the impression anything he said would find its way back to Erik irrespective of where he said it.

“I simply wish to warn you again…”

“About how dangerous he is? Or that he is a monster?” Shaya stepped back, shocked by the vehemence in the girl’s words. “Monsieur, I have seen. I understand who he is.”

“Do you?” Shaya shot back, suddenly angered and appalled. “Has he told you about Persia then?” The girl blinked, clearly trying to keep her face calm but Shaya could see panic rising in her eyes. “He hasn’t, has he? Why don’t you ask him about that before you tell me he is not a monster? Ask him about what he did to me, to my family. Ask him how many…”

“Ah, my sweet daughter,” the voice that came from behind Shaya was jovial but carried an unmistakable tone of threat as well. “Off to the party, are we?” 

Shaya turned to see the placid yet authoritative face of Robert Rameau.

“Indeed,” Christine agreed acidly, giving Shaya a dark look. “While we are there, you will have to tell me your secrets for keeping unwelcome admirers at bay.”

“Certainly, my lady,” Rameau smiled, reaching past Shaya to take Christine’s hand. She shot Shaya another glare as she passed him and strode away at Rameau’s side. 

Shaya sighed angrily. The girl had practically admitted she knew Erik and was not afraid, which meant she was either mad or did not truly know the Opera ghost. Shaya dearly hoped he had planted enough doubt in her heart at least. 

He glanced in the direction she had gone again and then in the direction she had come from. To his surprise the corridor was not empty. A large, slovenly man was moving with surprising patience through the hall, as if he was looking for something. Shaya vaguely recognized the man, he had been rather infamous a few months before for actually seeing the ghost’s face, and from what Shaya had heard, it sounded likely that the man had truly seen Erik unmasked. 

He suppressed a sickened shudder at that thought. There had been a time when it meant doom to have seen past that mask. Who knew what it meant now for this fool, or worse, for Christine Daaé.

 

“Thank you for rescuing me, Robert,” Christine told her escort earnestly as they entered the sparkling salon and were greeted with a tumult of applause. Robert took time for a polite bow before turning back to her.

“It was my pleasure,” Rameau grinned. He glanced over the crowd and gave a quick sigh; whether saddened or bored or both, Christine could not tell immediately. “Anyways, I didn’t want to face another one of these alone.”

“You too?” Christine muttered. 

She had felt like a lamb going to slaughter as she had left her dressing room, again deprived of speaking to Erik before she had been trussed up in pretty wrapping to be paraded for the patrons. She swore she would not stay too long, though the prospect of tonight’s return below did make her head spin and her stomach tighten. 

“Oh yes, my dear. Oh yes.” Christine watched Rameau survey the crowd again as the quartet that had been poached from the orchestra began to play in the corner. His face changed only slightly when he finally saw Moncharmin, but it was enough for her to notice. 

“It’s worse when you can’t even stand up beside the person you want to be with, isn’t it?” 

Rameau caught her eye with a look of suspicious sympathy.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” Rameau murmured. “You’re a smart girl, or you at least have a smart friend.” 

Christine’s face fell as Rameau cast a sidelong glance towards the ceiling. 

“Robert, I don’t know…” she tried to excuse herself.

“Oh, don’t worry, my dear, I am not going to say anything to any one, I’m not an idiot,” Rameau reassured her, though Christine did not relax. “I do wonder however that no one else has guessed. Perhaps I am just accustomed to looking beyond appearances.” Christine opened her mouth to protest again but no words would come. “Shall we dance?”

“No one else is dancing,” Christine answered automatically, looking over the rather stodgy crowd and once again feeling a surge of relief that she had not yet seen Raoul’s face. 

“Oh dear, you’re right, and we would not want to cause a scandal,” Rameau jested and saw it did not cheer her. “Truly, Christine, I do understand very well how to keep a secret. I even might suggest it is an art you should study.” 

Christine regarded the handsome bass, wondering what he could possibly be thinking of her. Perhaps it was no worse than what she was thinking of him and that was what made them alike. And perhaps he was right about keeping secrets more effectively.

“Robert,” Christine piped up, calmly offering him her hand. “I think we should cause a scandal.” She did enjoy the low rumble of his laugh as they began to dance, almost as much as she enjoyed the aghast looks of the patrons that parted around them.

 

Erik could not help but smile as he watched from above as Robert Rameau swept Christine though the crowd, drawing stares and murmurs from the over-dressed subscribers. They had seemed to share an earnest moment, and, though Erik had not been able to hear everything, he was quite sure Rameau either knew or guessed the identity of Christine’s benefactor. And Christine seemed to have happened on the perfect casting for the role of the mysterious lover everyone seemed to agree she had. 

Erik turned at a sound from behind him in the flies. There was usually no one about at this time, since the stage would not be reset until the next day, but he was certain he had heard footsteps. What was more, they had been slow and careful, like the steps he and Christine had heard in the dark the night before.

Erik retreated quickly, pulling his wide-brimmed hat low and sweeping his long cape around him as he disappeared into the shadows. There were other places to hide and watch. Though they were not as comfortable, it might mean he could hear what was being said in the party better, not that anything these fools had to say to Christine was of any matter. 

Erik came quickly to a compartment hidden behind the great mirror, in the back corner of the room. The panel of mirror was like the one in Christine’s dressing room, though smaller. He caught sight of Christine through the crowd, laughing at something Rameau had said as they finished their dance. He smiled once more; glad to see that she seemed happy. Now, someone else was asking Christine to dance it seemed, and Christine’s face looked suddenly troubled. Erik’s heart stopped. 

It was the boy.

Christine seemed flustered and tried to excuse herself but the boy caught her hand resolutely. Rameau gave a nod and left the two alone, thought Christine seemed determined to get away from the crowd. 

Erik tensed as Christine led the boy unknowingly towards the quiet corner where his hiding place was located. At least he had the consolation that tonight she was not smiling at his rival.

“Did you think I wouldn’t come?” the boy asked earnestly, forcing Christine to turn round face him. 

“You shouldn’t have,” Christine answered, her voice regretful in a way that made Erik completely forget that she had not smiled. She glanced to the mirror where Erik hid and her expression darkened. She knew he was there. “We should not talk here.”

“Was that him?” the boy demanded, undeterred.

“What?” Christine blinked.

“The man you danced with, who sang the lead tonight, is that him?” 

Christine gave a small nod, but Erik saw in the boy’s face that he did not entirely believe her. 

“And you think he can give you more than I can? I am just a patron bent on winning a new prize. Isn’t that what you said yesterday?” 

Yesterday? Erik felt as if the ground was suddenly very unsteady beneath him. The boy had no reason to lie, which meant it was Christine who had deceived him. He watched her face contort in turmoil as she looked at the boy, obviously realizing that her lie had been uncovered.

“Raoul, please, just let this go,” Christine pled, her eyes darting about nervously. She turned to leave but the boy caught her, pulling towards him, though not so close as to draw too much attention.

“I can’t, you know I can’t,” the boy affirmed fervently and Christine shook her head.

“Raoul, _not here_ ,” Christine commanded in a desperate whisper, forcefully separating herself from the boy. 

Erik’s breath was coming hot and ragged. She wanted to keep whatever else the boy would say secret from him, didn’t she? He set his chin grimly as Christine turned and made her way from the salon, drawing more whispers and stares as she did so and the boy followed doggedly behind. 

Erik reached the dark hall first, hiding in an alcove where he could easily hear and see them. Christine seemed as nervous as a hunted animal but the boy was intent on being heard and disregarded her agitation.

“You can try to tell yourself that I don’t feel anything real for you anymore, that there is no future for us. I know you have to think that to make this easier on you, but you must know it’s not true.” The boy grabbed Christine and forced her to look into his intensely honest eyes and Erik wished for an instant that he could send a dagger flying through the noble’s heart. “Christine, I won’t let anything stop me from telling you what I’ve been trying to say for weeks: I love you. I’ve always loved you. You’re not a prize or a conquest. I would marry you in a heartbeat, rules and propriety be damned. I…”

“Stop!” Christine nearly sobbed. 

Erik wondered that he was still standing in the same place and had not burst from the shadows to silence the boy at the first word of love from his perfect lips. Perhaps he did not want to hurt the boy in front of Christine, or perhaps it hurt too much to even move or breathe. 

“Please, Raoul, stop.”

“Are you going to tell me it’s dangerous to say that to you? That I should leave?” the boy pushed and Erik dearly wanted to scream how right he was. 

Erik watched Christine’s face twist in sadness, as she struggled to answer. Why didn’t she just tell the boy to leave and never return? Why didn’t she say she could never see him again? Erik felt hot tears beneath the mask as the moment stretched out. She didn’t say any such things because she did not want to. 

The boy could sense it too, Erik was sure of it. He leaned towards Christine, who still remained caught in his arms, his face softening with unmistakable ardor. He was going to kiss her and she was going to let him. They were only a breath apart.

“ _No_ …” Erik breathed aloud, frozen with pain and rage. 

Christine pulled away violently, shaking and covering her mouth as the boy stared in shock.

“No, please, leave now and do not try to find me again,” Christine commanded, visibly trembling as she turned and ran without another word. Erik did not stay to see the boy’s reaction. He tore into the passages, following the sound of Christine’s footsteps as she fled. She was not going to her dressing room, but further down. 

Erik grimly quickened his pace as he realized where she would go. He reached the prop room before her, noting bitterly that someone had left a gaslight burning as if to welcome them back.

“You lied to me,” he accused the moment she stepped through the door. 

She started in surprise, shocked that he was making no effort at all to conceal himself.  
“I didn’t want to hurt you any more,” she argued weakly, edging further into the room but keeping a safe distance from him.

“After all your pretty words about trust and not hiding, _you_ lied to _me_ ,” he pushed back, advancing on her through the clutter. “I have shown you more than anyone else in the world; given you more secrets than I ever thought possible. I have hidden nothing…”

“That’s not true!” Erik recoiled at the sudden anger. “You haven’t told me about Persia. You haven’t told me why you came here. You are still hiding from me.” Erik turned away from her, throwing up his hands as she drew closer. “Why won’t you tell me, Erik? What did you do there that was so terrible that a man is still hunting you for it?”

“Do you love that boy!?” Erik exclaimed, spinning to face her again. Christine stared at him in shock. “Do you love him?” he repeated softly.

“Erik, I told you, I don’t want…” she began, avoiding his eyes.

“You don’t want to love anyone, yes I am _very_ aware of that. I wish hearts actually worked that way, Christine, so that I could just decide not to feel this damned love for you. But I did not ask you what if you _wanted_ to love him.”

 

Christine wondered if this was what Erik felt like without his mask. He had never asked her for her love, never confronted her or demanded answers as to her feeling for him, but now it was clear that he had done so because he already knew.

“I loved him when I was young,” she attempted again. 

Erik grimaced and took a deliberate step closer to her, his gaze deadly as a hunter’s. 

“I don’t love him now,” Christine answered slowly at last.

“But you did, and you could again,” Erik stated miserably, his voice thick with anguish. 

Christine turned her face away from him. He had heard and seen absolutely everything, she was sure of that. He had heard Raoul say he loved her. He had been there as Raoul leaned to kiss her. The feel of the moment was still burning inside her: the desire to let Raoul kiss her, the surety that if he did, she could become that girl he loved. It had only been the sound of Erik’s voice through the dark had stopped her. 

“No I won’t,” she whispered, trying to make it true, but he did not seem to hear her.

“Do you think he’ll still want you when he knows about what you’ve done?” Erik spat coldly and Christine recioled “What will your hero think when he learns about me? About us?” Erik paused as his eyes narrowed coldly. “Will you tell him who your lover is or will you lie to him too?” 

Christine backed away, pushing though the cache of forgotten things, stumbling and shaking her head. The battle within her of anger, hurt and shame made her feel sick and dizzy. Erik stared after her, disgust and disappointment filling his shining eyes. Even when she turned and tore out of the prop room, she could still see his eyes blazing in her mind. 

Christine ran headlong through the halls, not thinking or caring where she was going, barely able to see. Part of her wanted to find Raoul and beg him to forgive her for running and to take her away and save her. She wanted to find the damn Persian and shake him until he told her the truth Erik was still hiding. She wanted to run out of the Opera and leave every hurt and ache behind forever, forget everything and never feel again. 

She tripped on the hem of her red dress as she rushed up a flight of stairs back towards the stage. She swore as she collapsed onto the stairs, the obscenity quickly becoming an angry sob. She closed her eyes tight, fighting back tears, then froze at the sound of a low laugh from behind her. Christine looked up, her heart in her throat. Joseph Buquet was striding slowly towards her out of the dim hall, grinning.

“I know I really should be going,” the brute snickered as he hungrily surveyed Christine, “but I just had to fucking _look_ at you.” She shook as she scrambled to stand, but her gown continued to impede her. “The angel, the bloody, fucking _angel_ the they call you.”

“Get away from me,” Christine commanded through gritted teeth as the man continued to advance and laugh. 

“I wonder if you’ll still have such airs when they start calling you what you really are – the ghost’s whore,” Buquet growled and Christine fell back again. 

“What…” she gaped, afraid she might be sick.

“Oh I heard every little word of your lover’s spat, my dear,” Buquet told her gleefully, finally reaching her and leaning over her as she attempted to stand again. “He was right you know, your ghost, that noble prick De Chagny will never even want to look at you when he knows what kind of slut you are.”

“Stop it!” Christine yelped, finally righting herself and beginning her retreat up the stairs. Buquet followed, deliberate and amused.

“You know I’ve seen him, what he really looks like. To think you spread your legs for that monster!” Christine heaved a sob, still backing away up the stairs. “I bet no other songbird ever thought to do that. Carlotta was right, you are a smart little cunt.”

“Carlotta?” Christine parroted, freezing in new horror as she reached the top of the stairs. 

“Did you think I’d be watching you without a reason?” Buquet laughed, his foul, sour breath thick in the air. “She paid me to find out where you go, who you go to. She knew you had some power over the ghost, but I bet she’ll pay me double when she hears this.”

“I can get money, I can pay you more,” Christine offered desperately.

“Oh no, no, my dear,” Buquet shook his head, the gaslight gleaming in the sweat on his bald scalp. “I want to be the man that rid the Opera of the ghost. I want to see what the police do to him. Do you think they’ll give him a public trial, so we all can come and see his pretty face!”

“No!” Christine screamed, provoking new peals of laughter from the master of the flies. “No, you can’t, please!”

“Now don’t tell me you actually care about the bastard!” Buquet howled, then without warning he pounced on Christine, grabbing her arms roughly. “Maybe I can change your mind about that.” 

Christine reacted out of pure instinct as his grip tightened and he pulled closer to her. She kicked him as hard as she could then brought her knee up fiercely, striking him in the groin where it was guaranteed to cause as much pain as possible. Buquet shrieked in pain as she twisted free and ran.

Christine barreled through the backstage halls, not daring to look back. She could hear him panting as he pursued, his steps heavy behind her. There was no way to go down, she realized, her panic rising. She flew up the spiral steps to the flies, fighting back the terrible feeling she was being herded as she heard Buquet laughing again below her. 

She climbed higher, far up amidst the thicket of ropes and machines above the stage. When the steps ran out she darted across a catwalk. She could get down on the other side of the stage….Christine screamed as Buquet landed in front of her, blocking her path.

“You think you can get away from me up here?” Buquet grunted, licking his lips. “This is my world, little girl. You won’t be the first sweet morsel I’ve caught in this web.”

“I will scream,” Christine cried desperately, backing away.

“Oh good, I’ve been looking forward to a private performance from you.” Buquet lunged and seized her. “Now let’s see what the ghost loves so dear.” 

Christine did scream as the animal set upon her, knocking her to the quaking catwalk and pinning her beneath him. The sound that tore from her throat seemed as useless as her struggle against the powerfully built man above her.

“Please no! Please!” Christine wailed, shutting her eyes as Buquet tore at her skirt, ripping the delicate material. “Erik, please help! Erik! Angel!”

“Angel?” Buquet snorted over Christine’s agonized cries, his hand groping brutally at her thigh. “Why call for an angel? You’re already in heaven!” 

“And you are about to find your way to hell!” 

Christine’s eyes flew open in time to see a shadow rise behind Buquet then a thin hand wrap around his neck. Buquet’s eyes bulged in terror as Erik tore him off of Christine and threw him back so that he hit a huge wheel of rope with startling force. The man collapsed and in the blink of an eye Erik was beside her, pulling her up and into his arms. 

“I didn’t think you would find me,” Christine rasped, burying her face in Erik’s shoulder. 

“I will always find you,” he swore tenderly in her ear, every trace of anger gone from his voice. For one heartbeat she felt completely safe.

“What a pretty picture,” Buquet snarled. Christine and Erik’s attention snapped back to the man, who was hauling himself upright. “I’ll be sure to remember this when I tell Carlotta about you and your whore, monster!” Buquet exclaimed viciously as he turned to run.

“Erik, he knows everything!” The words had not even left Christine’s mouth before Erik sprang after the man, fast as the wind. 

Buquet jumped clumsily to a catwalk below them, limping towards the opposite side of the stage. Christine gasped as Erik seized a lose rope and swung in an arc to land in front of Buquet, cutting off his escape and advancing on him slowly, every inch the grim and terrifying Phantom. Christine hurried as swiftly as she could down to their level, making it quickly enough to block Buquet on the other side of the catwalk. 

Buquet’s glance darted to her momentarily and it was all the time Erik needed pounce and loop the rope still in his hands twice around Buquet’s lecherous neck. Christine stopped dead at the sight the master of the flies staring at her in abject horror, as Erik choked him from behind.

“You will tell _no one_ ,” Erik commanded in Buquet’s ear with unquestionable authority. “You will leave my opera and never return. If I ever find you near this place again, my face will be the last thing you ever see.” Buquet gave gurgling noises of assent, his purple face making some semblance of a nod. Erik drew his makeshift noose tighter. “ _Do you understand_?” Erik growled and Buquet’s entire body twitched in agreement. 

Erik spun so that he was between Buquet and Christine before he released the man, who gasped for air as he tumbled to the shaky catwalk. 

Erik turned back to her, his eyes catching hers and instantly softening in heartbroken concern and contrition. 

“Christine,” he whispered, reaching for her.

“Erik!” Christine screamed, catching the glint of Buquet’s knife behind Erik before he did. 

She pushed past him automatically, simultaneously pulling him to her and shoving herself in front of him as Buquet lunged. Erik’s arms locked around her, as their bodies met Buquet’s attack with a dull crash of cloth and flesh. Christine cried out and pushed back then looked up in time to see Buquet tumble back into empty air. The rope still around his neck pulled taught. She heard the wet snap of his neck breaking and then watched his body bounce and swing, instantly lifeless.

Christine’s mouth fell open in a soundless scream. She felt Erik pulling her away, trying to tear her from the grisly sight of Buquet’s corpse, but the world was utterly distant and silent. She stared at the body, still swinging through the flies, even as Erik dragged her backwards. She followed the rope upwards until it disappeared in the gloom. Far above them huge bells hung, silent.

“Christine!” Erik’s voice broke through the fog as he forced her to turn and look into his eyes. 

His eyes. Even in the darkest moments, there was light in his eyes. Christine finally gasped for air. 

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, as if he had asked it already.

“No…” she replied numbly, not even sure if it was true. 

“Christine we have to go, _now_.” She nodded and allowed him to pull her away from the flies, feeling as if he was almost carrying her. “You have to leave,” Erik stated as the reached the level of the stage. Christine stared up at him in disbelieving horror.

“What?” she stammered.

“No one knows what happened, but they will find the body and start asking questions,” Erik explained urgently, holding her and looking into her face. “You _must_ be seen outside the Opera tonight and tomorrow.” He was trying to protect her. It did not make it any easier. “You have to go back home.”

“Come with me.” Erik drew back an inch in surprise. “Erik, you cannot ask me to face the dark alone, not tonight. Please stay with me,” Christine entreated. She realized as she said it that she was asking Erik to give up nearly every protection he relied on, but she did not care. All she that mattered in the moment was the certainty that if he let go of her, she would fall and never rise again. 

 

“And if I’m seen?” Erik stammered as he stared at Christine’s stricken face.

“No one looks at any man’s face, it’s a rule,” Christine fretfully reassured him. “If you want people to believe I was there, wait with me until Adele comes home. Let her hear us, or see you, in the dark. She’ll believe I’ve been with someone all night…”

“As you wish,” Erik agreed, his heart pounding. “Come.” 

He kept an arm wrapped around her shoulders as he guided them through the hidden paths to the door on the Rue de Scribe. It was past dark, which meant the attendant had retreated to the safety of home. The door was locked so that artists could exit but not reenter.

He felt Christine shudder beside him as they stepped into the night and tried to keep himself from doing the same. He had to stay strong. Neither his apprehension at leaving the Opera or the grisly memory of Buquet’s demise would keep him from protecting her tonight. 

They kept to the shadows, their heads down and their faces hidden as they made their way south along the Avenue De L’Opera. He did not think she even noticed when he threw Buquet’s knife into the gutter, though she caught his gaze in confusion as they turned at the Rue des Petit Champs.

“You know where I live?” she asked dully. 

“Of course.” 

Her brow furrowed and her steps grew slower and more unsteady as they continued on their way, finally turning at the great church of Notre Dame des Victoires. He saw Christine glance at the structure then look away quickly, guilt flooding her eyes. She stumbled and he drew her closer to him, hiding her from the sight of God’s house. Christine finally made them stop before a worn door. In the orange glow of the gaslights the red paint was the color of dried blood.

“I don’t have my key,” Christine told him listlessly, staring at the lock. She did not flinch at all when he pulled a pin from her hair, nor did she show any sign of surprise when he picked the lock within seconds. 

She pushed him behind her, hiding him as they entered the parlor, which was empty, save for an old woman snoring by the fire. He felt her tension abate as they made their way quietly up the stairs. Christine entered the first door they came to and Erik followed. She leaned heavily against a wall for support as he shut the door and locked it behind them. 

He felt incredibly strange in the dreary little room, even more so when he removed his hat. Such a pedestrian gesture seemed meaningless as Christine struggled to take in a full breath. 

“Oh God, Erik, what have we done…” she whispered in horror, nearly falling. Erik caught her quickly, holding her up and taking her in his arms. “What have I done?”

“ _You_ did _nothing_ ,” Erik replied vehemently. She shook her head violently against his chest. “It was an accident.” 

“A man is dead because of me…”

“A man who almost raped you and would have destroyed us both,” Erik shot back and Christine’s eyes few to his in shock. Her face was sick and pale in the murky glow of the gaslight from below the window, but her eyes were clear and full of suffering. “Christine, believe me, I know what you are feeling.” Erik took a halting breath as she blinked in dismay. 

“You felt numb at first, as if it wasn’t real. You felt as if there had been some mistake, or that there was something you could say or do to erase what happened. And now you are realizing you can’t. You feel sick, like you want to crawl out of your own skin, because the person you suddenly are, you don’t even recognize.” 

Christine nodded bleakly and Erik swallowed down his own wave of queasiness. 

“But it’s only temporary. It gets better. Tomorrow, or the next day you will begin to realize that it could not have been any other way. You won’t believe it the first time you tell yourself he deserved it, but eventually, you’ll understand that this was the fate he chose long ago. And then you’ll realize it was not your fault, and you’ll go on. You’ll keep breathing and fighting. You’ll survive.” 

Christine’s face had grown cold and calm as she looked up at him and drew away. “You’ve seen others die,” she stated softly. 

Erik nodded, though he knew it was not a question. 

“You’ve killed them.”

 

Christine watched Erik nod again in the gloom. It seemed to take the power out of the words to say them aloud, though they were still horrible. At least now she could stop pretending that she didn’t know what he was capable of and perhaps admit that she had always guessed. She moved slowly to take a seat at the edge of the bed, not speaking, just waiting for him. 

Erik took a deep breath and sat beside her, staring out her dingy window to the starless sky.

“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl name Cecile. She fell in love with a handsome nobleman in the house where she worked, and he told her he loved her back. He even promised he would marry her, despite his family’s position, but those lies did not last when she became with child and he bored of her. Her lover and her family turned her away, defiled and disgraced. She tried every poison or trick short of a knife to rid herself of the child before it was born, but all she did was damage that no one could have guessed. Her broken, monstrous son survived to be born to a mother that already hated him. The first thing she ever gave me was a mask.

“Since I can remember, my life was violent and cruel. I knew what a beating felt like long before I learned how to fight back. When she died and I ran, I only made it a few days before the gypsies caught me. They put me in a cage and exhibited me as a freak, but I did not shed their blood when I escaped, years later. I learned to fight and wound and survive as I traveled the world, singing and doing magic in fairs, showing my face when it was demanded, but I did not kill, until I came to Persia.

“The Shah had heard of me, he drew me there with promises of gold and a position as a court magician. The Shah was delighted by my skills, and my voice, and he even found my face amusing, but there were other nobles in his court that did not agree with their leader keeping a pet monster. 

“The Shah was cruel, bloodthirsty and vindictive. He wanted more than magic tricks, so he set one of these doubters upon me while the rest of the court watched. I don’t even remember the man’s name. He called me an abomination, said it was a wonder my mother had even let me take a breath. Then he attacked. He had a sword and I had nothing but a rope I had learned to use in India, a lasso. When I strangled him, they applauded as if it was a new magic trick.

“It became a new sport for the Shah, sending criminals and traitors to face me. He always gave them the same offer and the same warning: survive and walk away a free man, but beware if you see the demon’s face, for that means you are already dead. I designed an entire new palace for the Shah, with a maze of mirrors so he too could torture and destroy all who opposed him. For months I was death made flesh and my will was law. In the whole court there was only one man who tried to stop me, the only person who was something like a friend: the Shah’s chief builder. 

“He said I had been blessed and cursed, but that I still had a choice; that I could use my gifts for something beautiful. It was he who warned me when the Shah became convinced I knew too many secrets and, what was worse, was beginning to bore of me. You see the man’s brother was the head of the Shah’s secret police, and was the one who had been tasked with putting out the light in my eyes forever.

“The builder, Ramin, was determined to save me. He smuggled me to the coast, where the Shah’s secret police met us, along with Ramin’s brother. When Shaya saw his brother had been the one to help me escape, he tried to call off the attack, but it was too late. Shaya tried to intervene in the fight, but Ramin was killed. The same assassin that had taken Ramin’s life turned to Shaya and me, who were both bound to die as traitors, but my Punjab lasso was faster, and I snapped his neck before he could take another life. 

“Shaya wanted me to die, but I had saved his life, so he let me go. He told me I would have to live with his brother’s blood on my hands, along with all my other crimes. When Shaya returned to court, whatever lie h tried to tell failed, and he was imprisoned then exiled. He followed the tales of me until he found his way to Paris, three years ago, but by then I had already been driven farther into the dark then he would have ever guessed.” 

Erik paused, staring down at his hands and the clean white bandages wrapped around his palms. Those hands had created so much beauty and caused so much pain.

“After I escaped Persia, I tried to go back to the life I’d lived before. I traveled even farther, singing and performing, but every time the audience demanded to see my face, I was back in those mirrored halls. Every time they screamed when they saw me, I heard the cry for blood. I kept running, kept trying to hide but those screams always found me. 

“When I finally came back to Paris, I wanted to stop running. I just wanted to be like everyone else and have a real life. An aristocrat saw me perform in a fair on the edge of the city. He told me he would give me more gold than I could count if I would deign to perform for him and his friends at a party after a hunt. I resisted the invitation at first. Even before the Shah’s court I had never wanted to be a plaything for the upper class. But I went that day, because part of me still believed that if I tried, I could find a place there. I shared their noble blood, perhaps they might see me when no one else had.

“I went before that crowd of nobles in the summer sun thinking that they would be different, but I was so very wrong. They demanded I take off the mask and I refused. They attacked and tore the mask from my face, and then they screamed. I think I went mad when I heard those screams. I fought them, but this wasn’t Persia, there was no Shah to grant me protection. I had only myself and they had guns and numbers. 

“They threw me in a cellar and said they would call the police and tell them I had stolen from them and attacked them. After their kind had taken everything from me, they wanted to put me in another cage. I waited until night to break free. I started the fire to distract them so I could escape, but it moved so fast. Some of them fought me, some chased, some perished in the blaze. I escaped into the city and fled to the tunnels and to the Opera. I don’t know how many of them died that night, but I do know it was then that my life in the mortal world ended.”

Christine looked away from him. It felt strange to finally know the truth about the man who loved her, who had saved her life and trapped her soul. It reminded her of looking at his mask: she had always known the ugliness was beneath, she had just chosen to ignore it. At least now she understood Erik’s hatred for Raoul much better.

“Why doesn’t Shaya tell the police or the managers about you?” 

“He is waiting for me to show that I am still a monster, for me to do something that outweighs saving his miserable life,” Erik sighed.

“And if he finds out about…” Christine stopped, she could not even speak Buquet’s name.

“He does not need to find out, he will think it is my doing the moment he hears the man was strangled,” Erik answered simply. “I don’t think he will tell anyone though. The police will say it is a suicide and the managers will try to sweep in away. Shaya would not want to send others to their dooms. He will come for me himself, when he finds a way to do it.”

“But it wasn’t your fault,” Christine protested and Erik at last turned to look at her, his eyes the same color as the night sky and sparkling with light at the edges and their familiar sadness. “I won’t let him…” 

“Then he will come for me when he finds out what I have done to you,” Erik cut her off regretfully. “Or what I would do for you.” 

Christine looked away, overcome by another wave of sickness. Erik would kill again if it meant keeping her.

“Do you regret it?” Christine murmured, daring to look back at his masked face.

“All I’ve done, I’ve done to survive,” he told her slowly. “The monster I am is a monster they made. All the blood on my hands is on theirs as well. I remember feeling remorse after Persia, and perhaps I still do…but after that night, I refused to let myself feel regret any more.”

“I thought hearts didn’t work that way.” 

Erik gave a rueful smile.

“No, they don’t,” he breathed, caught by his own trap. Christine carefully took his hand, feeling the scars and wounds against her skin. 

“Will you hold me?” she asked softly, as the pain of the last few hours began to ache again. Erik seemed mildly surprised as he looked at her. “Hold me and tell me it will not feel this way for very long.” Christine shifted back onto the bed, trusting that he would follow.

“I don’t want to lie to you,” Erik whispered as he pulled her close to him, wrapping his cape around her like an angel’s wings. Her back was to his chest, so she could not see his face. 

“Then tell me a story and make me forget. Hold me while we wait. Hold me until I am sleeping.” 

 

Shaya trudged home slowly through the empty streets of Paris. Cities in Europe were always so deserted at night in the winter, when the cold and dark drove everyone inside. Not like home, where the warm wind from the desert would sweep through the city at night and bring it to life. You could always hear the sound of laughter or music somewhere in the distance. 

As he slumped in the biting chill of the February night, he remembered a winter night, years ago, when Ramin had prodded him for hours about the Shah’s plans for his infamous court magician.

 _You cannot just let the Shah put out such a light, Shaya, Allah will never forgive you._ Shaya had laughed at that, he thought as he came to his front door and fumbled for his key with numb hands. Ramin had been such a man of God, so devoted to beauty in so many ways. It had been no wonder the monster had bewitched him with his angel’s voice. Shaya still could not believe the faith Ramin had maintained in Erik’s soul. He had said it was just another beautiful thing the Shah had distorted and would now destroy. Shaya turned his key and wrenched open the door. The Shah and his magician had certainly done that to his soul and his family.

_He is an executioner, brother, an infidel and a monster, why do you want to risk your position for him_? Shaya still wished he had known that Ramin was risking his life as well. If had had known, he could have stopped himself from talking. If he had known what would happen he would have…Shaya shook his head as he handed Darius his coat and hat, pushing back the guilt and sadness.

“Did you find her tonight, Master?” Darius asked kindly. 

Shaya nodded listlessly. 

It did not make him happy to think about Christine Daaé or the look of worry and fear on her face. Had Erik even known that Ramin was to be married a month later? Had Erik even cared that Shaya’s brother had willingly called him a friend? 

Shaya loosened his collar and fell into bed, still trying to shake the sick sense of doom that had hovered over him all evening. There was no use. Once such darkness had touched a life, there was no escaping it, he was certain. The darkness had destroyed Ramin, and it was slowly devouring the beautiful singer they called the angel, and Erik was its source.

 

Christine opened her eyes at the feel of Erik’s arms tensing around her. She held her breath until she heard what he had: the sound of a carriage approaching below, then laughter in the street. 

“It’s Adele,” Christine whispered turning her body so that she faced him. “You have to go now,” she reminded him, wishing it wasn’t true.

“Are you sure of this?” Christine nodded resolutely. 

“I’d rather everyone think I’m a harlot than…” 

Erik placed a long finger on her lips. She shivered at the touch and was both glad of the reminder that she could still feel and ashamed that she still reacted so wantonly to the touch of a killer. There was no time to linger like this though.

Christine stood quickly, hastily unbuttoning her dress until it hung half off her shoulders, exposing the corset beneath. If this was to be her part, she would do it right. 

Erik avoided looking at her as she grabbed him and pulled him towards the door. He snatched his hat and pushed it as low to his face as possible. Christine prayed that his hair and the darkness would help the illusion as well. She would be the one who would truly make Adele believe, she reminded herself as she pulled Erik with her into the hall. 

“Say my name,” she ordered in a whisper.

“Christine…” he obeyed just as footsteps began to approach up the stair. The desire in his voice made her tremble. She heard him fight a gasp as she pulled him to her, almost violently, placing her body between him and the wall beside her door. Her arms encircled him as he pressed against her, and she was instantly lost in sensation. 

She forgot Adele as she felt his breath on her face, forgot Raoul as she pushed her fingers through his hair and tugged him towards her. As he kissed her, she forgot everything. The kiss was tentative at first, still unbelieving and amazed, but it deepened quickly. She clung to him tightly as his lips began to work carefully against hers and his hands moved over her body. Not even the unyielding hardness of the mask against her cheek could dissuade her from continuing, as waves of longing and excitement echoed from her core. 

The world was perfectly tranquil as he pulled back, only an inch, and she felt his sigh of wonder against her lips.

“Can’t you stay?” she asked, not sure if it was part of the charade or her dearest wish.

“It’s almost dawn,” he answered somberly, drawing closer and whispering in her ear. “There is too much I must do today. I have to find out if anyone else knew. If they did…” The world rushed back in a suffocating wave and Christine tightened her grip on his arm.

“What then?” 

Who else could be hurt, she wondered? She suddenly saw Buquet fall again in her mind. There had been a look of absolute fear in his eyes as he stumbled into the void. For that one second he had known what was about to happen…

“I don’t know,” Erik replied, his voice barely audible. Christine shut her eyes tight, fighting back the image of Buquet’s terrified eyes. “Come back and I will find you.” 

Christine felt him tense in shock as she turned her face and kissed him again, deep and desperately. He returned the embrace with fearsome hunger, caressing her face and neck and chest with his cold hands. He pulled back with what seemed like great effort, his hand still on her cheek, as he searched her eyes. 

“I’ll find you.”

He tore himself from the embrace as swept quickly down the stairs, pulling his hat low once more and pointedly ignoring Adele’s outline on the landing. Christine leaned against the wall. Not even the timid approach of Adele’s footstep was enough to make her move. 

She looked up at her friend’s stunned face and prayed that the smoky shadows of the hall would protect her. Adele glanced over Christine’s tousled clothes and smirked. 

“Now I know why you left the party so quickly,” the similarly disheveled singer remarked with a wicked glint in her eye. 

Christine savored a rush of relief as she slowly stood straight, trying to force a smile.

“I thought no one noticed that,” Christine muttered and Adele gave a shrug. Christine turned to her door, focusing on her breath. 

Adele gave a small laugh as she passed Christine and opened her own door. “Just remember my advice, little sister,” Adele chimed from beside her and Christine caught her eyes. They were kinder and more serious than usual. “Don’t let yourself fall in love.” 

“I won’t,” Christine replied resignedly with a weak nod. She did not even make it a step into the room before sinking to the floor, fighting back her tears. 

If Erik could forget how to regret, she could do it too. And she could forget how to love as well. If there was one gift her father had left her with, it was that. She would not weep for the man that had nearly destroyed all she cherished. She would not let tears of pity become anything more. 

The torrent came none-the-less.


	10. Innocent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The opera deals with the aftermath of tragedy.

Richard grimaced as he strode through the opulent foyer of the Opera. He felt as if he was walking into a particularly gaudy church or palace every time he entered the building. He hated churches. As he made his way towards the stairs that would take him out of the extravagant jewel box and to the more staid confines of the administration offices, he heard the quick clattering of steps on the marble behind him.

His sigh of annoyance came almost automatically as he turned to see Moncharmin rushing towards him, followed by a man he did not recognize and a rather confused looking gendarme. 

“What has happened now? Are we arresting the ghost?” Richard asked the men sourly.

“Did the message not reach your house?” Moncharmin asked, blinking in confusion.

“It must have missed me,” Richard grumbled, not in any mood to tell his partner that he had not been at his house the previous night. “Why was there a message?”

The men looked between each other and then back to Moncharmin, who seemed particularly seasick.

“For God’s sake, out with it!” Richard barked and Moncharmin swallowed.

“The firemen found a body, in the flies…”

 

Christine splashed the clear, cold water from the washbasin onto her face, holding her hands against her skin and covering her eyes before daring to look at herself in the small shard of mirror on the wall. It must have been a full mirror once, long ago, before it was broken and discarded; one small part of it rescued or retained and pinned up in some chorister’s dingy quarters, then abandoned again.

She combed her wet hands through her dark hair, examining her reflection. She looked tired, but otherwise no different from the person she had been the day before. It was strange, to think how easily she had become used to not seeing her own face. There were mirrors everywhere in the Opera: in the glittering Salons, in her dressing rooms, even backstage in the wings. The complete absence of mirrors in Erik’s home was liberating. The only likeness of herself she saw there was the one reflected in her ghost’s ocean eyes.

Girls were stirring and laughing down the hall, clamoring past Christine’s door to run out to meet the woman who sold warm pastries and bread from her little cart in the street. Christine was quite sure she would not be able to stomach any food yet.

She fastened the last few buttons of her old blue dress and took a breath for strength. She could not just hide here all day. She had to be seen and then she had to make her way back to the Opera and back home, below the streets and far away from the mortal world.  
Christine stepped into the hall, steeling herself to descend the stairs to the parlor where half a dozen females would be eating and gossiping. She was ready for their curious looks and whispers. The sight of Adele rushing up the stairs to meet her was a great relief.

“Well, you picked quite a morning to be here!” Adele exclaimed as she grabbed Christine’s hand and pulled her to the parlor. Instead of being strewn about the room in pairs and trios, all the residents of the Hotel St. Claude seemed to have gathered around a small girl, another resident. Christine did not know her name, but she believed the girl was a dancer.

“Are you sure they said he was dead?” someone was asking.

Christine felt the bottom fall out of her stomach. She had not expected news to reach her so fast.

“Thomas told another fireman who told Marie who ran in and told LaRoche – they found the body hanging in the flies! Of course he’s dead!” the dancer chided her questioner irritably.

“Calm down, Jammes,” Adele ordered, not quite as engrossed as everyone else.

“Do they know who it was?” Christine asked dumbly and others around her echoed the inquiry.

“No one knew for sure, but I heard someone say it was Joseph Buquet!” little Jammes answered animatedly.

“Well good riddance then!” a mezzo beside Christine grumbled. To Christine’s shock, the other women sounded a chorus of agreement.

“I can’t think of a better corpse, after what he did to Rochelle,” another dancer agreed.

 _You won’t believe it the first time you tell yourself he deserved it_. Erik’s voice rang clear in her mind and Christine fought a wave of horror.

“Did he do something to little Giry too?” Jammes asked the attentive crowd and Christine cocked her head, suddenly finding it easier to concentrate. “Poor thing looked utterly terrified when she heard, she didn’t even wait for us to be dismissed before she ran out of the studio.”

“Bet she wanted to be the first to tell you,” Adele posited, giving Christine a sidelong glance.

“But then she’d be here by now…” Christine murmured. As if on cue a frantic knock came from the front door. Christine and Adele did not wait for Madame Valerius to stir herself from her stupor by the fire and answered it themselves. To Christine’s surprise it was not Meg, but a quaking young man.

“Is Mademoiselle Daaé in?” the messenger asked hesitantly.

“This is her,” Adele answered, pointing to her friend, which Christine was glad of. She knew her own voice would be shaking if she spoke. “What do you want with her?”

“Monsieur Richard and Moncharmin from the Opera sent me to look for her, they wish to speak with her.”

Christine tried to make her face a mask of innocent confusion and keep the rest of her body still as stone.

“Are you to escort me?” Christine asked and was amazed that her voice remained calm. The boy nodded seriously. Christine turned to Adele. “Why don’t you come along? Every diva needs an entourage.”

“Oh why not,” Adele smirked. “The air is getting too thick in here anyway. Let me get our wraps, my lady.”

Christine waited and tried to avoid the young messenger’s gaze as Adele sauntered up to their rooms. The other girls were still talking about Buquet.

“Well, it has to be a suicide doesn’t it?” someone was saying.

“Or it was supposed to look that way,” Jammes replied darkly. “We all know Buquet had enemies, _extremely powerful_ enemies.”

“You’re not saying…” a third voice gasped.

“Oh yes I am,” Jammes confirmed, “Buquet saw his face, didn’t he? Kept telling all sorts of stories. It was only a matter of time…”

“Shall we?” Adele’s piped from behind her and Christine gave a quick nod. She was relieved to exit into the relative quiet of the Rue de Notre Dame des Victoires, following after the messenger back to the Opera. She wished her mind were similarly quiet.

_Eventually, you’ll understand that this was the fate he chose long ago._

 

Meg ran through the streets as fast as her dancer’s legs would carry her, her hair flying wildly behind her. She didn’t care that she looked ridiculous with her tulle ballet skirts under her coat as she rushed up the quiet boulevards. She had not been to this part of the city very many times, but everyone knew the Chagny estate. The front gate was open and she did not have to spend long knocking at the door before a very annoyed looking butler opened it.

“I need to speak with Monsieur Le Vicomte,” she panted, trying to sound dignified and important and failing utterly.

“Monsieur is not expecting visitors,” the butler sneered. “I will leave word…”

“Tell him it’s about Christine!” Meg interrupted him rudely and the man raised an eyebrow high in his wrinkled face. Grudgingly he stepped back and gestured for Meg to enter.

“Wait here,” the butler ordered tersely, leaving Meg to stare up the graceful curve of the massive stair to the second level.

Meg had no will or ability to maintain her composure as she gaped at her surroundings. The foyer was paneled in beautiful dark wood, hung with portraits and full of plants and lush, expensive carpets. She had never been in a room so lovely, outside of the Opera. What would it be like to live in such splendor?

“Meg!” Raoul’s voice jolted her from her dreams. He came rushing down the stair, the butler following tiredly behind. “What is it? Is she alright?”

“She’s fine!” Meg reassured him, though she realized as she said it that she was not sure if that was true. “You asked me to tell you at once if anything strange or unsettling happened at the Opera.”

“Yes, of course,” Raoul muttered, confused.

Meg waited, trying to find the right words and to not be distracted by how handsome her host was. He was in shirtsleeves and his hair was tousled and looked like gold in the morning light through the windows. Meg swallowed. There was no easy way to say it.

“This morning they found a man dead above the stage.” Raoul’s face went pale in horror.

“Dead?” Meg nodded. She knew what the next question would be and for some reason she was terrified of giving the answer. “How did he die?”

“He was hanged, sir.” Meg gulped, she knew she should not say the rest, but Raoul had to know. He had to be warned and know what happened to those that asked too many questions or saw too much. “They are saying it was the ghost.”

 

For all the time she had spent wandering the Opera, Christine had never felt so conspicuous as when she entered off the Rue de Scribe being led by the manager’s messenger. Everyone seemed to catch sight of her, but very few looked her in the eyes. What were they seeing? What were they thinking?

“Christine?” It was Julianne, emerging from the stairwell down to the costumers’ workshop. Christine had never seen the dark-haired girl look so concerned. Louise was following her, looking equally upset.

“Good morning,” Christine greeted them, trying to sound casual.

“I’m not sure if good is the right word,” Julianne replied hesitantly. “There is no rehearsal today, is there?” Julianne asked, looking between Christine and Adele.

“The managers wanted to speak with her,” Adele answered with a shrug and Julianne’s eyes went wide.

“It’s nothing, you two don’t need to worry about me,” Christine stated lightly before Julianne could open her mouth to ask more questions. She fixed her dresser with an earnest look, begging for understanding. Julianne gave a sigh and a subtle nod of her head and withdrew.

Christine felt her tension gathering as she and Adele continued on their way to the manager’s office. She had no idea how, but just like Rameau, Julianne seemed to have made the connection between her and the ghost. How many others would guess now?

It took an eternity to reach the manager’s office. Christine noted bitterly that this would be the first time she had actually been inside it, rather than below it. The messenger knocked hesitantly on the ornate mahogany door. It was Richard who threw it open, glowering down at the poor boy. There were several people in the office behind him.

“I f-ff-found her…” the young man stuttered. Christine’s skin started to crawl as the bald manager turned his glare to her.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Daaé!” Moncharmin called a bit too cheerfully from behind Richard, waving Christine in.

Christine felt the knot in her stomach begin to loosen as she stepped into the office, leaving Adele behind with a nod. She observed the twin desks beneath the large windows and wondered which one Erik’s hiding place was situated beneath. He had to be there now.

“Monsieur Moncharmin, this young man said you wished to speak with me?” Christine asked hesitantly as Richard pointedly turned away from her and returned to conversation with the other two men in the room, one of whom was a gendarme. The messenger ducked away as well.

“Yes, please forgive me for calling you in today of all days, I know you must be tired from such a wonderful performance last night and we ourselves are…” Moncharmin’s voice trailed off as he too looked at the trio of dour-faced men, “having quite an unexpectedly busy day.”

“I’ve heard,” Christine muttered and Moncharmin gave a sigh. “It’s very hard to keep anything secret for very long in the Opera,” she consoled him as she followed him to his desk.

He caught her eyes meaningfully. “Oh, I would say there are some people more skilled at keeping secrets than others,” he replied and Christine felt her insides begin to twist again. She struggled to keep her face implacable.

“What was it you wished to speak to me about, Monsieur?” Christine asked tensely.

Moncharmin sat at his desk and carefully straightened a pile of papers so that each edge was lined up exactly, then adjusted a pen so it was impeccably parallel to the papers. Everything was in precise alignment to the edges of the desk.

“I know it doesn’t really help, but I like to keep things very neat. It helps me to know where everything is, give it all a place,” Moncharmin explained thoughtfully. “It gives one the illusion of control, to at least know where one stands.” Christine blinked as the manager looked back up at her. “I wanted to know if you had decided yet what you wish to sing for the gala.”

Christine concentrated with every ounce of strength she had on not flinching or sighing in relief.

“Of course, Monsieur, I had almost forgotten,” she replied slowly. “The Jewel Song will be quite a good choice, I agree; perhaps the final trio from _Faust_ as well. _Sempre Libera_ from _Traviata_ should also do nicely. And some Mozart, perhaps an aria from _Don Giovanni_.”

“I had thought you would have chosen the Queen of the Night,” Moncharmin commented, turning his attention back to his meticulously ordered desk. “Do you think your admirers would rather hear you sing of love than revenge?”

Christine’s blood was still running cold. She did not know how to play this game but she felt Erik nearby, as tense as she was.

“I could prepare either very easily,” she stated slowly. Moncharmin gave a quick glance to the men locked in conversation across the office. Christine tried not to shudder as she followed his gaze and Richard shot her a dark look.

“You know, Inspector Mifroid over there says this unfortunate incident looks like a suicide,” Moncharmin noted delicately. “They should be done investigating by the afternoon.”

“That is a consolation,” Christine muttered.

“Yes, I hope it is,” Moncharmin agreed. “Perhaps you are right, about _Don Giovanni_. Are you sure though that your…benefactors will not wish to hear a song of vengeance?” Christine took a deep breath.

“I think I know where I stand, sir. They feel such songs are quickly growing out of fashion,” she answered and delicately straightened the last errant paper on Moncharmin’s desk. “Any such impression you may have received to the contrary…would be purely accidental.”

“Perfect then,” Moncharmin nodded, his eyes more serious than Christine had ever seen them.

 

Erik let out a silent sigh of relief and slouched against the rough beams beneath the manger’s office. Whatever reassurance as to her control over the ghost Moncharmin had wanted from Christine, she had given it. That was one manager taken care of. Richard seemed much more skeptical of the police’s reassurances that the death had been a suicide or Moncharmin’s protestations that there was nothing else to worry about.

There had been a great deal of chaos in the room above him throughout the morning, though most of it had been caused by directors and other chiefs bursting in on the managers and demanding answers to the rumors of a death in the Opera.

Richard and Moncharmin themselves had been quite reticent so far, with Moncharmin being the one to give the same rote answer to everyone: _The police are here and looking into it, but they believe it was a suicide_. Erik could tell just from listening that the man did not entirely believe his own words and now after listening to the strange conversation with Christine, he was sure of it.

“Is there anything else you need of me, sir?” Christine asked from above and Erik gave another sigh just to hear her voice above him in the darkness.

“No, Mademoiselle, thank you,” Moncharmin replied a little too politely.

Erik listened to the soft beat of her footsteps retreating and wondered if she would go to her dressing room. It would be the easiest place for him to find her, if she wanted to be found. Erik felt a chill as the thought occurred to him that she might not want to see him so soon.

She had kissed him again and begged him to stay in the darkness, but now she knew exactly who he was and had seen something terrible. Why would she want to return? Erik realized it was not only Christine’s footsteps he could hear exiting the room, but other heavier footfalls. The inspector and his gendarme were finally leaving.

“I would truly love to know why you wasted time groveling to that little trollop when we have other things to deal with,” Richard barked as soon as the door was closed.

“No more than I would love to know why you’re still fawning over bloody Carlotta,” Moncharmin shot back with a fire that surprised Erik almost as much as the words. Richard did not reply immediately, which Moncharmin seemed to take as an invitation to continue. “Come on Firmin, neither the police nor my messenger found you at your house, which means you were with her last night. Why? There’s no need…”

“You should not talk about things you do not understand, Armand,” Richard snarled. Erik heard the muffled sound of Moncharmin standing in consternation above him. “The woman has no one,” Richard continued, his voice softening considerably.

Erik’s eyes narrowed in the dark.

“The Opera was her life, even if it was a cruel life. Christine Daaé and her damn ghost or whoever did this to her, left her with nothing. I don’t think you understand how that feels.”

“Being with her will not bring your wife back,” Moncharmin stated flatly and another piece fell into place for Erik.

He wondered if he would have realized that Richard and Carlotta had become lovers if he had not been so preoccupied with Christine. As if things were not complicated enough.

“As I said, Armand, don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” Richard snapped, his voice cold and unsympathetic once more. “Now, if you don’t mind, I told Mifroid one of us would be there when they take down the body. Since you are doing so very well soothing our artists, the task must fall to me.”

Erik listened to Richard’s decisive steps above him then heard the man give a heavy sigh or frustration as he opened the door.

“I guess you’ve come for your money back?”

“What? Oh, no, Mosiuer, I was looking for Mademoiselle Daaé,” the voice of Christine’s noble suitor answered and Erik wanted to scream. The boy simply would not give up.

“She just left,” Moncharmin answered for Richard, who Erik guessed was scowling so furiously he could not speak. “Look near the stage.”

“Thank you, Messieurs!” the boy cried and Erik heard him turn and run off. Erik did not wait for further words between the managers.

There was a chance he could find Christine before the boy did, though it was slight. It was more likely he would have to endure watching another encounter between the two. Though this time he felt less fear of such a thing. Christine knew who he was and she had still kissed him with heart-stopping passion; but what was more, he knew exactly who she was.

 

“Which way?” Raoul asked Meg breathlessly as they came to another junction.

“Left,” Meg answered. Raoul rushed to obey. His heart leapt when he saw Christine’s familiar silhouette ahead in the hall, walking beside Antoine’s lover of all people.

“Christine!” he called out without thinking.

She turned swiftly to face him as he ran up to her, Meg following quickly behind. Christine seemed to go pale as she saw him, but her expression transformed into one of simple confusion before he could be sure.

“Monsieur Le Vicomte,” Christine nodded.

Raoul looked dumbly between her, the other singer and Meg, at a loss for words in the face of her cool propriety and under the gaze of her very interested friends.

“Are you alright?” he asked more forcefully than he had meant to, fighting the urge to take her in his arms.

“Why on earth would I not be alright?” Christine asked, giving both him and Meg bewildered looks.

“I heard a man was killed,” Raoul explained blankly.

“The police say it was a suicide,” Christine replied cautiously. “And I do not see how that would make you worry. I didn’t know the man.”

“Wasn’t he bothering you the other day?” Antoine’s soprano asked casually.

“I thought he bothered a lot of women,” Christine countered quickly, nonplussed.

“But Christine, he was the one who…” Meg attempted in a small, tremulous voice.

Christine sent her a cold look that silenced the small dancer immediately. “Now Meg, what have you been telling our friend?” Christine asked crossly and Meg shrank under her steely gaze.

“She told me that some believe it was not a suicide…” Raoul explained, stepping farther forward and shielding Meg.

“And what do such rumors have to do with me?” Christine demanded sharply.

Raoul found himself groping for words.

“Come, little rat, we have better things to do than stand here gossiping,” the other singer chimed in, taking Meg firmly by the arm and leading her away. Meg gave him a protesting look but Raoul gave her a nod. He turned his attention back to Christine.

“Meg says the ghost did it,” Raoul told her plainly.

“How can a ghost kill a man?” Christine shot back incredulously. “And again, what on earth does that have to do with me?”

Raoul scowled, suddenly frustrated by Christine’s mysteriousness. He took her by the arms, wishing it were enough to pull her back to him.

“Christine, I hear a voice in your room and you disappear into thin air. You flit off with some angel of music who no one has ever seen and no one can find you. I am practically exiled from the Opera, then warned that if I keep asking questions, I will be in mortal danger. Then I tell you I love you and you run off, and the next day a man is dead. Christine, what am I to think?”

“That you have an overly high opinion of your own importance,” Christine snapped, and Raoul recoiled, letting go of her.

“Christine, I can’t just leave you here,” Raoul pled, reaching for her again. Her expression faltered from one of confused anger to one of miserable yearning. “Even if this death had nothing to do with you or this…phantom, this place is dangerous. There is a darkness here and I can see it consuming you.”

Christine looked away, clearly struggling. She cast her eyes up then around, giving him the clear impression that she was trying to see into the shadows. Raoul suddenly felt as if they were not alone, just as he had the night before, when she had run from his kiss. He had thought he was mad to imagine that he had heard a voice.

“Raoul, things are complicated,” she muttered sincerely.

“You can’t talk here, I understand.” Raoul found himself glancing to the shadows as well. “So leave. Come away with me and things can be like they were before. We’ll go to the sea. We’ll be together.” Christine shut her eyes slowly as if she was in great pain. “Meet me at the church we went to. At four o’clock.”

Christine shook her head sadly.

“And if I don’t come, will you forsake me?” she asked softly. Raoul winced at the words.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. She had to come though. He could see it in her face that she wanted to. “We can be free, Christine,” he entreated one more time and moved to embrace her.

“Raoul, please leave, now,” she ordered miserably, pushing him back.

Raoul tried to shake off the rebuke and nodded. He turned and left without another word. He had given her a fair choice and it was up to her to choose correctly.

 

Christine entered the closest unlocked room and almost laughed when she saw it was the storeroom full of discarded instruments where she had spent her first night at the Opera. It had started to rain outside, and the light was washed out and cold, but the room was full of daylight, which was so rare in this kingdom.

She stared out the window at the busy Rue Auber below: so many people, just living their lives. She did not look up at the soft sound of the door opening again. She had felt him watching the entire time, which had made every honest, heroic word Raoul had spoken all the more painful.

“No one else knew that Buquet was following you,” Erik told her softly, slightly aloof. Christine nodded slowly. “Richard will know however, unless his lover is convinced not to tell him. Or if she is too frightened to go further, she may just let this end.”

“How will you do that?” Christine asked numbly, finally looking up at her ghost.

He was keeping to the shadows, of course, but it was still incredibly odd to see him in the harsh light of day. He seemed smaller, more human.

“I thought you might be able to do it better actually.” Christine cocked her head slowly, wondering why she was neither surprised nor appalled by the request. “You will have to leave the Opera to do it, though I’m sure you can make it back by dark.”

Christine moved back towards him automatically and looked into his eyes. Raoul’s brown eyes had reflected a girl who was still innocent, who needed to be saved, but Erik’s blue ones showed her a woman who had and knew so many secrets, who could save or destroy him.

“And if I am not back by dark?” she inquired simply.

Erik reached out of his shadows and held a pale hand to her in the gray light. Christine took his hand without hesitation and let him guide her back into the gloom.

“Then I will find you.”

 

Meg hated being led away like a child who was forbidden to listen to the adults’ conversation. She wrenched her arm out of Adele’s grasp as they finally reached the stage. It had taken a very long time since Adele had felt it necessary to stop and talk with everyone who passed by, but had not let Meg leave her side. Now the wings and stage were more crowded than would have been expected on a Friday with no rehearsals.

“You should have let me stay. Christine needs me,” Meg shot at the older woman, though she was well aware that Adele knew the statement was a stretch.

“Calm down, girl,” Adele chided with a frown. “Christine can take care of herself.”

“No! Don’t you care? Don’t you see?” Meg burst out and Adele raised her eyebrows. “She’s seen the ghost! He does things _for her_! And now the man that saw him is dead! We don’t even know where…”

Adele grabbed Meg and pulled her to a secluded nook among the heavy curtains. “Listen, Meg – yes, I know your name – Christine is fine. She was safe in her bed last night, believe me,” Adele told her with more seriousness than Meg had ever seen the singer exhibit before.

“She came home?”

“And not alone,” Adele confirmed and Meg’s eyes went wide. “And believe me when I tell you, whoever she was with…” Adele paused and looked down, clearly remembering something that had impacted her greatly. “She’s not in danger, not while she’s with him.”

Meg opened her mouth to protest but a call from above the stage startled them both.

“Careful, men! We don’t want any more accidents!”

Meg looked up. Far, far above in the flies a group of men were pulling something that looked like a sandbag towards the catwalk. Meg covered her mouth as she gasped, suddenly realizing why so many others were on the stage. They were pulling Buquet’s body down.

She looked at Adele beside her: the singer’s face was as cold as stone. Meg wondered if Adele had ever seen a corpse. Meg had, though her father had killed himself with drink, not a rope.

 

Richard refused to look down from the dizzying height at the top of the flies. Nor would he allow himself to look away from the sight of the stagehands and police gently pulling down the thing that had once been Joseph Buquet. It had bulging eyes and the head was resting at an unnatural angle.

“Doesn’t look like he suffered, sir,” Inspector Mifroid remarked from beside him. He had left it to his young lieutenant to actually deal with the body. It was difficult work: the thing had already begun to stiffen with death. “You can see that the neck snapped. It would have been very quick.”

Richard shook his head as the stagehands laid the body on a large piece of burlap and wrapped it around the corpse like a shroud. Everyone watching below would be spared the horror of really seeing what death looked like. One very large stagehand took up the remains in his arms. It would be much easier to get down with only one person carrying the thing.

“The dead never suffer, Monsieur Mifroid,” Richard muttered, finally looking away as the procession disappeared down the iron stairs. “They leave that to the living.”

 

Armand stifled a small gasp as he watched the stagehand carry the body onto the stage. The crowd parted as they laid the body down on a plank that had been produced from the scene shops. He watched several people cross themselves; others shook their heads in disbelief. Even from his position in one of the high boxes, far above, he could see the grief and horror on his employees’ faces.

“Surprising,” Robert’s voice came from his shoulder. Armand looked at his lover curiously, not caring how the bass had found him, but glad he was there. “Buquet was not a popular man, nor a good one. And yet they mourn.”

Armand nodded in understanding as he looked back to the stage, where four men were lifting the body now and carrying it down through the orchestra and up the main aisle of the theater.

“That may be true,” Armand sighed. “But he was still a man. It was still a life.”

Again, he was glad when Robert took his hand.

 

Erik watched from the highest salon in the foyer as employees crowded the grand staircase, trying to catch a look at the body of Joseph Buquet as it was carried out of the Opera beneath golden lyres and laughing muses. So strange that the man would leave the Opera for that last time by a route he had likely taken only a few times in his miserable life, if at all.

Erik inched forward to the edge of the shadows. Today of all days he should avoid being seen, and yet he cared less about being discovered than he ever had. The entire Opera had already laid the crime at his feet. No one would dare defy the Phantom now. When the man tumbled from that catwalk he had unwittingly given Erik more power than ever before: the power of true fear and of one secret Christine could never let her hero know.

Erik looked down on the grim spectacle below, a horrible mockery of a funeral procession. Pallbearers carrying a man they had likely hated, women weeping for a brute who had so wronged their sex. They would throw him in a pauper’s grave without rights or songs and forget him the next day. Erik knew very well the funeral rights for a suicide. At least he had been able to steal into the churchyard at night and sing a requiem for his mother, before he had run. Buquet would have no such gift.

He looked away from the body as it moved slowly down the stairs, to the faces of the workers and artists gathered through the foyer. He was not surprised to see Christine watching, almost as high up in the galleries as he was, looking down with a face full of sorrow and suffering.

The moment he set eyes on her she sensed it and looked up. She could see him, he was sure, as she stared up towards him and her eyes softened, even as her expression grew firm with resolve. Slowly, she nodded. Yes, she could see him and yes, she would do what must be done. When they looked back down together, Buquet’s body was out of sight.

 

Shaya folded his paper carefully and set it down as Darius took away his tea. He had not felt at all like venturing out today. It had been raining on and off – cold, winter rain that Shaya hated. At least with snow it was beautiful for a while. This rain simply chilled one to the bone.

“Anything of interest today, sir?” Darius asked politely, glancing at the copy of _Epoque_.

Shaya shook his head. He took all the Paris papers and combed them each day for any sliver of information he might find about Erik. It was usually a fruitless endeavor. Erik was far too smart and reclusive to do anything that would merit attention by the press. Still, it passed the time.

“Any review of the performance from last night?” Darius continued.

“The usual praise for Daaé, speculation about if she will leave Paris to sing anywhere else,” Shaya replied with a scoff. “As if that could happen.”

“Why not, sir?” Shaya caught his servant’s eyes, surprised that after so many years, the man still had to ask.

“Because Erik would never let her go,” Shaya answered with a shrug.

 

The rain had stopped hours before, and Christine was glad of it as she walked slowly up the boulevard. She had made sure to retrieve her cloak from her dressing room before she left the Opera. It made her feel much safer and warmer to walk down the street with it on, the hood pulled up so that no one saw her face very well or gave her too much attention. She had taken time to get to her task and simply walked the streets aimlessly for a while before hand, gathering her strength. There was no more delaying it now though. Erik had told her where to go and the building was not hard to find on the fashionable Boulevard des Capucines west of the Opera.

The oddest thought occurred to her as she walked up to the door. For all of her months in Paris, she really had not seen a great deal of the city. She had never been to the Bois du Bologne, or the Place de la Concord. The only time she had been to Norte Dame was with Quasimodo in the pages of a novel. What a strange thing to think, on a day like this, about to do such a thing.

She slipped the skeleton key in the lock and it took only a moment to work as she had been told it would. The door to the flat itself, on the second floor of the building, opened just as easily.

Christine took a moment to look around. If there were servants on duty, they were either too lazy or bored to care about the sound of the front door opening. The drawing room was stuffed with trinkets and the walls were lined with framed posters of various operas. It was all rather gaudy and overdone, which was not at all surprising. A small cough came from beyond an open door and Christine followed the sound. She pulled her hood a bit lower as she entered Carlotta’s room.

The former diva had arranged herself on a chaise by the window, swathed in shawls and blankets rather dramatically. Her face however was wan and her hair was rather unkempt. She had dark circles under her eyes and a rather wild look about her. She coughed again and sat up as she heard Christine’s footsteps.

“Who is there?” she asked weakly.

Christine noted there was a terrible rasp to her voice that indicated she had not yet recovered from her last performance.

“A friend from the Opera,” Christine answered lightly.

“Oh of course!” Carlotta gave a broken approximation of a smile. “So good of you to come, though I have had so many visitors…” The diva’s voice faded as she looked up towards Christine’s shadowed face. She removed her hood and Carlotta’s eyes flew wide. “You!”

“Good afternoon, Signora,” Christine intoned with a darkness in her voice that would have made the Phantom proud. Wearing Erik’s cloak, knowing all his secrets and all he was capable of, she had never felt more like him.

“What are you doing here?” Carlotta screeched, scrambling to grab a bell from a table beside her, which Christine deftly moved out of her grasp.

“I simply wished to talk you,” Christine told the older woman calmly. “This war between us must end.”

Carlotta shook her head vehemently, rising shakily from her resting place, her layers of blankets tumbling to the floor. “Never! I won’t rest until you are back in the streets where you belong and they find your damn _ghost_ and send him to a real death!”

Christine set her face grimly and took a decisive step towards the trembling woman. Her accent was gone and she looked so small without all of her silks and jewels.

“Joseph Buquet is dead,” Christine stated dispassionately. Carlotta’s lower lip began to quiver first, and then her whole body began to shake as horror filled her eyes.

“You’re lying…” Carlotta whispered as Christine took another step towards her. She stumbled back, missing the chaise and tumbling ungracefully to the floor.

“As I said, Signora, this must end,” Christine repeated, feeling as if her soul was made of ice. “One way, or another.” Carlotta gave a small whimper as she cowered on the floor, batting feebly in Christine’s direction as if she hoped to make her disappear like a bad dream.

“I will…destroy you…” Carlotta panted and her voice broke. She clutched her throat with a horror in her eyes that almost made Christine wince. Almost.

“No you won’t,” Christine whispered. “Just take what you have left and go. Live your life. There is a whole world, beyond the Opera.”

“Not for me,” the broken woman whimpered back.

“You have been warned then,” Christine murmured, more regret in her voice than she meant to let Carlotta hear. She replaced her hood and turned away, her cloak sweeping around her like liquid darkness. She slipped out of the room and out of the flat without looking back.

She had done exactly what she had been told to do. She had seen the fear in Carlotta’s eyes clearly enough to be sure that Erik’s plan had worked.

It was a quick walk back to the Place de L’Opera. Christine stared at the immense crossroad. It had been designed to be one of the great hubs of the new Paris that baron Haussmann had envisioned and that dream at least had come true. The Opera was to her left, looming above the intersection of five different streets. One of them led to where Raoul was waiting for her in a small, ancient church, ready to save her. She could still go. She could still be that girl.

Christine felt the whole world spinning around her. As if everyone was moving faster than she could even see, but she was frozen in place.

_Just take what you have left and go. Live your life. There is a whole world, beyond the Opera._

She tried to breathe as the crossroad called to her.

 

“Monsieur, there is no evening mass tonight…” the young priest hesitantly reminded Raoul. The Vicomte gave a heavy sigh.

“Yes, of course, Father,” Raoul mumbled, rising from the pew where he had been waiting for most of the afternoon. He knelt and crossed himself automatically as he entered the center aisle before turning to the priest.

“Do you wish counsel, or to make a confession?” the priest offered kindly. Raoul gave him a cynical glance. The man looked younger than him; he doubted he could offer anything in the way of counsel.

“Not unless you know anything about women,” Raoul grumbled sourly, his hurt pride bubbling to the surface.

“I am afraid I am of little use there, Monsieur,” the priest answered with a shrug.

Raoul opened his pocket watch and listlessly checked the time. It was far past the appointed hour of four o’clock and Christine was very clearly not coming. He looked up at the windows. The colors in the stained glass had faded a quarter of an hour ago and the saints and angels had grown dull and cold. The image of Gabriel appearing to the Virgin made Raoul frown.

“Perhaps you know about angels then,” Raoul muttered to the priest who gave him a quizzical look. “What is the difference between a ghost and an angel? They’re both dead, aren’t they?”

“The angels are servants of God among men; ghosts, if one believes in such things, are spirits damned to walk the earth until they find peace,” the priest answered slowly, blinking in confusion.

Raoul snapped his pocket watch closed and shook his head. He was through waiting and having his heart broken again and again. Christine was not off with an angel. She had chosen a man. Another man.

Raoul strode from the church glumly, sending up a final prayer that God might grant him the mercy of helping him forget Christine at last. Perhaps it would be worth a try to call on Yvette Sully tomorrow however.

He grimaced at the gargoyles that stared down from the eaves, silhouetted against the fading twilight sky. He had always thought it strange that churches should be adorned with protectors that looked so much like the devil. Raoul shuddered as he turned his steps homeward, new dark thoughts invading his mind. The devil had been an angel too, long ago.

 

Jean Paul jumped at the sound behind him in the street as he closed the stable gates. He had been tense the entire day, after learning of Buquet’s demise and so it was understandable that he gave a cry when he turned and saw a hooded figure.

“Oh God, please, I never…”

“Jean Paul, don’t worry,” the woman, for it was a woman, consoled him quickly, and pulled back her hood.

“Mademoiselle Christine!” Jean Paul sighed in relief. “You gave me quite a fright!” Christine gave him a weak smile.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” the singer apologized quickly. Jean Paul looked over her, interested now that he was not distracted by fear. There was something terribly tired, or perhaps sad, about her face tonight, though maybe it was just a trick of the fading evening light. “I was hoping to see the horses.”  
“Oh, well, I was just closing up…” Jean Paul stuttered.

“I’ll make sure to lock the gate after I leave,” she offered kindly. Jean Paul looked back into the stable and a mare gave him an encouraging whinny.

“Alright, just don’t be too long, even this part of the Opera is dangerous after dark,” he agreed, wondering if this girl would pay him any more mind than the three much smaller ones at home. It would be more of a relief than usual to get home and hold them and his wife today.

“Of course,” Christine murmured in acknowledgement as Jean Paul opened the gate for her. He gave her a final nod and turned back on his way towards home. Ahead of him on the street a man was walking on precarious looking stilts, lighting the gaslights one by one. Had Christine had a light with her, he wondered? She had not seemed worried at all about the dark.

 

Christine walked with slow confidence through the secret door to the cellars, which had been left open for her. Erik raised his lantern without a word. He only needed to see her grim nod to know that it was done. She took his offered hand, glad for the contact at the end of a day when she had felt so oddly distant from the world. It had all felt like a strange dream: hearing the stories, talking to the managers, seeing the body, Carlotta. She had likely broken Raoul’s heart as well, but there had been no choice. All day, there had been no choice.

She savored the quiet of the underground world as Erik guided her below, his cold hand steady and reassuring. This was familiar and real. This was the world she knew now, not the places she had been since running out of that prop room. Even the dank air of the lake when they reached it was a strange relief.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of the house on the lake as she entered, Erik following silently behind: wax, paper and books, stone and smoke, cold and shadows.

Erik’s hands grazed her shoulders as he removed her cloak for her. The moment he set the garment down she was in his arms, shocking herself and him as she embraced him and knit her hands into his hair. When she kissed him, the world faded away to nothing but the feeling of his arms tentatively wrapping around her, his lips against hers.

If the quiet of the darkness had been a relief, this was like music filling the silence, sweeping every memory and ache away. She didn’t care if it was sinful or wrong or dangerous or that she could no more name what she felt for Erik than she could count all the stars. All that mattered was that the only time she felt free was when she sang or when he touched her.

When she drew back to take a breath, his eyes were full of familiar questioning. Christine swallowed nervously; the knot of fear in her stomach that would have stopped her before was still there, but the need for him, for the release and peace and abandon his touch promised, was at last stronger than the fear.

Hesitant but sure, she nodded.

Erik raised a hand to her face, tracing the line of her cheek as he had done so many times. As always, the touch made her shiver and her skin come alive. He trembled subtly as he stepped back from her, moving his hand from her face to his own. She gave him another silent nod. She knew the truth now; it was time for him to trust her. Despite her resolve, she caught her breath as he lifted off the mask.

 

Erik set the mask down by the piano, shaking and trying to keep breathing. He kept his eyes locked to hers, begging her not to run. In the strange silence between them, he was sure she could understand. All that was sustaining him were her eyes and the passion he had felt in her kiss. She did not take her eyes from his as she backed away and held out her hand, beckoning him.

He followed her without question as she led him to his own room and sighed as her hand withdrew to begin undoing the buttons of her dress. It seemed an eternity that she worked the garment as he waited a foot away, holding his breath. Finally she pushed the dress off her shoulders and to the floor, exposing her entire form to his eyes.

Her skin was the color of antique ivory in the candlelight and was covered all over with gooseflesh. She was shaking as badly as he was, he realized as he drew nearer, at last daring to raise a hand to touch her. He trailed his fingers over her shoulder and to her breasts, past her taut nipples, down to her ribs, in awe of her softness and warmth.

She caught his hand and pulled him to her, once again tangling her fingers into his hair. He wondered if there was as much nervousness and desire in his own eyes as hers, before she kissed him. He savored the yielding softness of her lips as he tentatively explored them with his own.

He pulled her closer to him, sweeping his hands over her exposed body and letting his mouth stray beyond hers, to her face and neck. She gasped as he kissed her ear, a small beautiful sound. Erik breathed in the scent of rain in her hair as his fingers loosed it from the comb holding it in place and it tumbled loose down her back.

It was so strange and fantastic to kiss someone, to feel her skin beneath his lips, to taste her. He kissed her throat and could feel her pulse pounding. His hand traced the curve of her hips. In the silence he could hear how her breath was coming just as quickly as his.

He recoiled instinctively as she began to fumble at his collar, the old fear of exposure overcoming him. She caught his eyes with a look of reassurance and pulled him back, setting to the task with even more determination. He watched her as she pushed off his shirt and vest and coat, exposing his pale, scarred skin to the soft light. What did his skin feel like to her? His head fell back in amazed ecstasy as she kissed his chest, her hands tracing the scars there with incredible tenderness. How could someone so beautiful touch someone like him, someone so horrifying, the way she did?

There was no music or darkness or mask hiding him now and still she continued. Every inch of skin she kissed felt as if it had been touched by fire. He caught her arm and pulled her up to him. It had already been too long since he had felt her lips against his. She gave a small cry as he swiftly claimed her mouth and kissed her deeply. She was not as hesitant now, or as careful. Neither was he. He pulled her close and nearly lifted her as he bent his head to kiss her breasts; adoring the sigh of pleasure she gave as he drank her in like wine.

Erik could not tell if it was Christine that pulled him or if they simply began to tumble towards his bed. It did not matter. They fell among the sheets, their kisses becoming more impassioned and frantic with each breath. His hands caressed her breasts and back as he kissed her, then joined her in impatiently divesting him of the last of his clothes. He was sure he would explode as he felt her hot skin against the length of his body, felt her wet and ready as his hand explored between her legs, making her gasp.

His heart was beating so hard it was deafening, and his desire for her was so urgent he could barely conceive of anything else, yet he was suddenly terrified. She was panting when he dared to look in her eyes, asking desperately one final time if this was real. It was his turn to gasp as she parted her legs and set her hand upon him. She looked into his face, her eyes absolutely clear.

“Breathe,” she whispered.

She did not close her eyes or look away as he guided him into her and her face contorted with the sensation. He breathed deep, obeying her, as he remained still, staring at her with absolute awe and adoration.

It was the feel of her breath against his own skin gave him the strength to move, slowly pushing deeper. Her eyes fell closed as she gave a moan and he grew bolder. She wrapped her legs tightly around him as he continued to move above her, urged on by her rising cries and the feel of her hands pulling him ever closer to her. He was not silent either, but he paid no mind to the sound of his own sighs as he lost himself in her.

He fought back against the compulsion to move faster, telling himself with the last shred of rational thought left in his mind to savor this embrace as long as possible. It was almost impossible though. She trembled and writhed beneath him, pulling him into a hungry kiss as her body rose to meet his in an urgent rhythm.

Her breath was shallow and fast as he kissed her neck roughly. She threw her head back, calling out. He felt her tighten around him as he kissed her again and the last thought of control flew from his mind. There was nothing more beautiful than the taste of her, the scent of her skin, the breathless sound of her voice in his ear, and the feel of her shuddering beneath him. He gave a cry as the climax finally came, pleasure and release cascading over him in waves as his body convulsed in her arms.

She was kissing him again or perhaps she had never stopped. As the world slowly came back into focus he felt as if he might collapse to her breast and struggled to hold himself up. Her eyes were half closed as he pulled away to look at her, remaining within her a while longer. Her face and skin were flushed and glistening, and her breath was still ragged.

He wanted to say something, wanted to tell her how completely he adored her, how utterly beautiful she was, how desperately he wanted this night to never end. Yet there was too much safety in the silence and hunger in her eyes. She gently touched his face as his lips found hers again, her kiss overcoming every care and commanding him. He echoed the gesture; his hand shaking as he touched her cheek, then softly trailed his fingertips to her brows.

Her eyes were closed now. He kissed each eyelid, then her cheeks, followed by her neck, then down her chest and abdomen as he withdrew from her. She gave a small sigh of protest that melted into a moan as he found her with his hand and he began to hum against her skin. He knew she would remember the melody.

_Just close your eyes and forget all I’ve done, in the dark you are mine tonight…Close your eyes and forget who I am, except that I am yours._

 

Shaya strode hastily through Montmartre, splashing through a puddle of rainwater still lingering in the streets. The noise and brightness and smoke of the tavern when he entered were a bracing contrast to the chilly, quiet outside. No one gave Shaya a second look. The people here were accustomed to seeing far stranger characters than him enter their midst. He chose his table carefully, close to a large group of drinkers, at least two of which he recognized as stagehands from the Opera.

“I still don’t believe it,” a wiry young woman exclaimed. “It happened in the Opera?”

“Right above the bloody stage, my dear!” one of the stagehands answered enthusiastically. Shaya smiled proudly to himself, please with his luck. “While all the snobs drank their champagne below, he was planning it! Hell, he might have even done it while they were there!”

“You believe that stupid story the managers and the police put out then do you?” a sandy-haired man asked. Shaya leaned closer. The police had been at the Opera?

“And I suppose you believe the damn ballet rats saying the ghost did it?” the stagehand who had been talking snapped back.

“Yes, but Buquet saw him back in the summer! Blabbed all about it, didn’t he?” another man interjected and the small crowd sounded a chorus of agreement.

“That’s no reason to kill him though!”

Shaya stood up so violently he knocked his chair to the flood. The group started and stared at him, growing quiet.

“Can we help you, friend?” the sandy-haired man asked suspiciously.

“Did you say someone was killed at the Opera?” Shaya demanded, feeling as if his heart was suddenly made of lead.

“Indeed,” the man muttered. “They found the body hanging in the flies this morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those chapters that owes itself to a very specific song, in this case "Innocent" by Our Lady Peace.


	11. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has something to hide or hide from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger/Content warnings: domestic violence/violence against women (not portrayed in great detail).
> 
> Sorry for such a long wait between updates! Holiday maddness!

Christine wondered if she had ever known quiet so gentle. There was only the sound of his breath and the flicker of candles, nothing else. The dark sheets wound around them and hangings on the wall seemed to swallow up all other sound, as surely as they did the light. There were only a few candles left burning now. The others had gone out hours ago while they had rested, leaving her and Erik in dim, alabaster shadows. 

For the first time in hours they were not touching, each lying on their sides, facing one another in the tender silence. His eyes were closed peacefully. He seemed to be sleeping at last. Christine shut her eyes and in the stillness, she could hear her own steady heartbeat. She did still have a heart, after all she had done.

The thought made her open her eyes again. It was too much to be deprived of the sight of her lover, however terrible, as well as the sound and feel of him. His hand lay between them. He had discarded the bandages and most of the cuts were healing, though the sight of the wounds still gave her a jolt of pity. Christine placed her own hand over his, and was glad when the flesh was warm. His eyes were warm as well when they opened and searched hers.

“I thought you were asleep,” she whispered, finding a small part of her voice at last.

“I thought you were,” he echoed, just as softly. “Perhaps we are dreaming.”

“Is this what you would dream of?” she asked, raising a hand and touching the terrible long scar down the left side of his face. 

He caught her hand and pressed it closer to his deathly skin, and then kissed the tip of each of her fingers as they trailed over his lips.

“Oh yes,” he sighed. The sound of his voice and his touch were like flint and steel, sending sparks out to ignite her skin. In a heartbeat her breath was quickening and in another she was kissing him again, long and deep as desire began to pulse inside her.

“Have you not had enough of me?” she asked breathlessly as he kissed her neck, remembering their earlier embraces, how they had seemed to go on forever, yet never long enough. “Aren’t you bored?” she teased as a delicious tingling spread from the place he was kissing.

“Never,” he murmured adamantly as he pushed her onto her back, his mouth descending lower. “I could never tire of you.” 

She felt the heat of the words against her breast, then his mouth. She gave an encouraging sigh as his lips found her rigid nipple and his hand her other breast. She had begun to tremble, she realized, as he shifted himself to a position between her legs. Her hand knit itself amongst the sheets in anticipation as his lips continued to adore her breasts, then moved down to her ribs. 

“I want to know every inch of you,” he breathed against her skin and she shivered again. He touched her lightly with his hands, making the ache for him between her legs all the more agonizing. 

She gave a small moan of longing as his mouth continued its meticulous progress to her stomach, and then her hips. 

“I want every part of you to be mine.” Christine caught her breath as he kissed her thigh and his fingers lightly grazed her sex. “Every part.”

She gasped as his mouth found her, tentative and maddening. The ache for him was so intense she could hardly bear the touch of his lips at first, but quickly a deeper desire overcame her. She gave a small cry the first time she felt his tongue, wet and warm and intoxicating. She arched her back as the kiss that was more than a kiss continued. 

He held on to her hips, pulling her to him as his mouth explored her, making her cry out again and again. Her head fell back as pleasure washed over in unrelenting waves and she moaned in slavish abandon. Her whole body convulsed then froze as a moment of complete, silent ecstasy overcame her. 

He barely gave her time to catch her breath as he moved back up her body and drove himself into her, filling her and making her cries begin anew. She pulled him tightly to her, barely able to form a thought. She felt as if she would expire from sensation and want. She felt him tremble and heard him call her name from far away as she stifled a scream against his shoulder, the world once more stilling and exploding at the same time. 

She was still panting as he fell away from her. She wondered if they were staring at the same point in the shadows above them as the silence grew still and tranquil around them once more, the echoes of their voices disappearing like ripples on the surface of a placid pool. She was grateful when he pulled her close to him and settled her head on his chest. She listened to the sound of his heartbeat slowing.

“Where did you learn that?” she asked as she traced a smooth, pallid scar on his arm with her fingertips.

“There are books about everything.” 

She laughed softly at the answer, for some reason finding the thought of Erik owning such books both absurd and unsurprising. He stroked her hair gently, magnifying her sense of relaxed contentment.

“Every part of me is yours,” she sighed, the thought slipping from her lips before she had a chance to stop it.

“That’s not true,” Erik replied flatly without hesitation. 

Christine shifted her body so she was looking at him, confused and unexpectedly hurt. His eyes were tender but sad as his touched her face. 

“I have your voice, and your body, and when you sing, I have your soul…” he whispered as his hand trailed down her neck and over her chest until it came to rest at her left breast, above her heart. “But there is one part I do not possess, that you will never give away willingly.” 

Christine felt a stab of guilt so intense that tears sprang to her eyes. “Erik…” She tried to look away but he caught her chin and turned her face back to his.

“I don’t care though,” he reassured her, his sincere eyes shining faintly in the dim light. “I don’t ask for your heart; I’m far too afraid and I know I can’t, and it doesn’t matter. My whole life I have never wanted anything more than I want you, to just to share your light for a moment.” Christine held her breath, staring into his distorted face and perhaps for the first time, not caring what she saw. “All that matters is that you are here with me now, that you are mine and that you know I am yours.” 

Christine wished she had the courage to answer, but she was only brave enough to kiss him, fiercely and deeply, as if she could find the words still on his tongue and breathe them in all the way to her shattered heart. She wondered if it was hope in his eyes that she saw when she pulled away, but she did not look long enough to be sure. She closed her eyes tightly as she settled back against his pale chest.

“Sing to me,” she pled softly. “The lullaby. Tell me what language it is and what it means, and sing to me.”

“It’s Gaelic,” he answered easily. “And you already know what it means.” His angel’s voice rose softly from his throat, resonating through his chest so that she could feel the vibrations against her cheek. It was the sound of dreams.

 

“Damn you, open!” Shaya cried, uselessly shaking the locked wrought iron gates that sealed off the front entrance of the Opera. A few passersby across the Place de L’Opera gave him a worried glance and quickened their pace. 

Shaya sighed angrily, finally giving up and turning his back to the door. It was then that he noticed he had attracted more attention than just polite folk going about their morning. A girl with dark hair and dark eyes was staring at him from the bottom of the steps.

“What are you planning on doing, if you ever actually get in?” she asked nonchalantly unimpressed by his glare.

“You work here, don’t you? I’ve seen you,” Shaya demanded, advancing on the girl. She nodded slowly but said nothing. “Are you going in? There’s money in it for you if you…”

“Keep your money, I am not going in today, I was just walking by and wanted to see what the commotion was,” the girl snapped. “And even if I was going in, I would never help you.” 

Shaya’s eyes narrowed. Why would the girl be so interested if she was not even going in? Unless she thought the information would be valuable…

“You’ve already been bought, haven’t you?” Shaya snarled and the girl gave a knowing smirk. “You work for him.”

“No, I work for her,” she shot back and Shaya took a moment to understand. 

“That is as good as working for him,” he muttered. “Either way, whenever you decide to go back in, I want you to give him, or her, a message.”

“That sounds ominous,” the girl yawned, unimpressed by Shaya’s fervor. 

“Tell him that I am done waiting,” Shaya intoned darkly, glowering at the girl. She smirked again and turned her heel, leaving Shaya standing in the shadow of the opera, alone once more.

 

Erik played softly, savoring the feel of the ivory keys beneath his fingers, the vibrations of the instrument from within the dark wooden body and the smooth action of the pedal. It was a relief to be free from the bandages on his hands, to let the music sweep everything away without distraction. It was almost as perfect of the feel of her. The melody was a new one, and it sang of devotion and possession, longing and fleeting consolation. 

He closed his eyes as it echoed through the shadows. He had always been so certain that no living soul would ever hear his music, almost as certain as he had been that no living woman would ever look on his face and kiss him. He was quite unaccustomed to it, but he was grateful to be wrong, he thought, as he brought the notes to a final cadence. He had been so sure of so many things; perhaps there was hope yet that he was wrong about more of them.

“Does that have a name? It’s beautiful.” He looked up to where Christine leaned against the frame of his door, a blanket wrapped loosely around her shoulders.

“Perhaps you will let me borrow yours.” 

The sight of her was like something out of a dream: her shy smile, her soft skin glowing in the candlelight, her forest green eyes full of regret. 

“I’m hungry, do we have any apples left?” she asked kindly. Erik still loved to hear the word we on her lips, even just talking about apples.

“A few,” he replied, rising from the piano. 

He watched her move through the room out of the corner of his eyes as he obeyed her request. He was glad she had not chosen to bother with her discarded clothes yet, though he did feel a bit over-dressed himself in his dark trousers and shirt. 

She was curled on the couch by the fire when he returned with the fruit and took it from him with another coy smile. 

“I am actually getting low on supplies.”

“Well, I guess there is always fish if things get too spare,” she muttered between bites.

“I will need to see Rabindra some time this week,” he remarked, taking his accustomed chair beside her. 

“Will you take me? I’d like to meet him.”

Erik regarded her, once more amazed by how much of his dark world she wanted to see and know. “Of course.” 

He set in to his own apple, noting how pleased she always was when she caught him eating. It was much easier to eat without the mask on and the fact that she even could eat while looking at him was encouraging. 

They finished their meal in silence, both staring at the flames and pretending not to notice each stealing glances at the other. Christine was the first to rise, sighing and throwing her core into the flames where it sputtered and smoldered.

“I feel like a bath,” she stated resolutely, striding towards her door. She looked over her shoulder before entering and gave him an expectant look. Erik remained seated, quizzical. “Wouldn’t you like to come with me?” 

He wondered if there was any other person in the world so adept at rendering him speechless. She of course didn’t need to hear the words to know he agreed. 

He followed her cautiously, not reaching the door of the bath chamber until she had started the stream of steaming water into the large tub. He watched as she lit a few more candles, moving languidly as if they had all the time in the world. 

She discarded the blanket and he caught his breath, still awed just by the sight of her. Her skin was not quite as pristine as it had been the night before, he realized, noting several red marks on her breasts and abdomen. He touched one worriedly.

“Those aren’t as bad as what I left you with,” Christine shrugged and pushed off his shirt. The brush of her fingers alerted him to a scratch on his arm, four parallel scratches to be precise, from her long nails. He smiled as he tried to remember when he had received the wound. A guilty glint in her eyes as she unbuttoned his trousers and looked over him told him it was not the only one.

“We’ll heal, I guess,” he murmured. 

 

What seemed like an hour later they were still together in the warm water, Christine lying against him, her back against his chest. He combed his fingers through her damp hair; trying to recall another time he had ever felt so content and relaxed as this. The heat of the bath had seeped all the way to his bones and he felt more alive and human than perhaps ever before. She was holding his other hand just above the water, studying it as if she hoped to memorize the tangle of scars, calluses and wounds.

“We should begin work on Violetta sometime today,” he remarked without any real conviction. 

“We should,” she agreed listlessly, “but do we have to?”

“Rehearsals start in two weeks, aren’t you excited for a new role?” Christine gave a tired sigh in response.

“Thinking about the roles mean I have to think of those rehearsals, and the next performances and going back up there…” she muttered, placing his hand against her breast and holding it there as her cheek fell against his chest. “And I don’t want to think about any of that.” Her voice was soft and sad as her eyes fell closed. “I wondered how it was that you were so skilled at not thinking about the future, but I understand now. There is no tomorrow, down here, just as there is no yesterday. There is only the night that never ends.”

“Even down here you can’t hide forever,” Erik answered, familiar sadness edging into his heart.

“But right now I can,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. “Right now there is nothing but this.”

“No practice today then.” 

The water around them was as smooth as glass.

 

Meg straightened the collar of her coat again and tried to keep her breath steady as she approached the gates of the Chagny manor. Her heart was beating so swiftly and fiercely though she was sure anyone who saw her would know how nervous she was. Would Raoul recognize the dress she had worn before? He had not complimented it previously, but he had been so preoccupied before. It was all she had that was remotely worthy of him.

“May I help you?” a stern, female voice asked from behind Meg as she started to step past the gate. 

Meg spun, blushing instinctively and faced the woman. She was dressed in a beautiful gown of silk so dark blue it was nearly black. Her hair was dark as well, and her face was pretty but slightly pinched. Her eyes were cold and gray as the sky.

“I…I was coming to call on Monsieur De Chagny,” Meg answered, looking down and feeling like an errant child caught out of school.

“The elder or younger?” the woman inquired. Meg blushed a bit. “Ah, the younger it is. I am sorry to say he is already engaged for the afternoon.” Meg felt her heart fall.

“Will he be free tomorrow?” Meg ventured and the woman gave her a pitying smile.

“How do you know my brother?” the woman asked, ignoring Meg’s question. “I am surprised he has not told his family about so pretty a friend.” 

Meg swallowed, for some reason sensing she had just been insulted without knowing how.

“We have a common friend at the Opera,” Meg stuttered. “I am a dancer there.” 

The woman’s face hardened. “You’re friends with that singer that broke his heart? You’ve been helping him to pursue her?” 

Meg wished she could sink through the cobblestones and disappear.  
“We were very worried for her, Madame.” The Vicomtess seemed unimpressed with this excuse. “But I was coming to see Raoul on my own behalf.”

“Raoul is calling on Mademoiselle Sully today, my dear, and will be otherwise occupied for the foreseeable future.” She had abandoned almost all illusions of politeness now. “He made it very clear he is quite finished with the intrigues of the Opera. If only my other brother was so wise.” 

The sound of a carriage clattering into the street from the manor made Meg turn. She only caught a glimpse of Raoul in the fashionable brougham, his handsome face set determinedly. She felt her heart break a little bit more.

“He is still a patron though,” Meg protested hopefully. “He will still come to the performances.”

“Perhaps,” the sister shrugged, sweeping past Meg through the gate. She gave a nod to the footman who had come out to receive her and he began to push one massive iron side of the gate closed. “I see no need though. If he wants such a thing, he can find pretty faces and cheap costumes anywhere in Paris.” 

Meg turned quickly, hiding the tears in her eyes as the gate shut behind her.

 

Christine walked soundlessly through the flies, humming to herself, a melody from _The Magic Flute_. The screams below seemed a perfect counterpoint to the jagged music of revenge. She couldn’t see who was making all the commotion. She didn’t care anymore. She did see the body hanging listlessly from the rope, swinging gently below the bells. She could not tell if it was a man or woman. Sometimes the face was familiar and cruel, and sometimes the face was beautiful, but that of a stranger.

“He’s here! The Ghost!” Meg cried and Christine looked down to the crowd below her, quickly swarming up into the tangle of ropes like insects. 

“I told you she was the one!” Carlotta screeched madly, lunging at her with hands like claws. She tried to run but strong arms caught her from behind and forced her to look as the mob continued to advance. 

“And to think we all thought she was an angel,” Robert Rameau laughed. 

“Just another whore,” Richard sneered. 

Her captor laughed cruelly and bent to whisper in her ear. “Oh, but there is so much more to you than that.” 

Christine tried to scream at the terrible coldness in Erik’s voice but he covered her mouth with his hand. No. It was not a hand on her face, but a mask. She watched in horror as his shadow moved through ropes, as each shade that set upon him fell into the abyss until only one remained. 

Raoul was facing her with a look of utter disgust and complete fear. She could not bear it. It was Erik that moved her hand to push him, laughing as his rival fell back into nothingness. 

“You knew this would happen,” Raoul whispered, his face frozen in complete terror. She shook her head and looked back up to the first body beneath the bells. Erik.

Christine woke, gasping in horror. She was sure she would be sick or start to cry, but neither happened. Something was stopping the dream from claiming her completely…it was the sound of Erik playing in the next room. 

She fell back into the sheets, listening and catching her breath. This was the third day so far she had awoken alone in his bed with him composing a room away, each new melody and variation more beautiful and entrancing. The dreams had become worse though. The music stopped and she at last rose and gathered her robe from the floor where he had thrown it the night before. 

He was writing furiously as she entered the main room, as if the music was something that could not be contained within him or else he would go mad. Perhaps memories were like that…

“You look upset.” Christine’s head snapped up, her mind flying back to the real world. Erik’s eyes were concerned.

“I…had a bad dream,” she confessed, feeling rather foolish to say it. “I have them whenever you’re not there,” she added softly, and the worry in his eyes grew deeper.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Erik murmured. “I was not sure if you would want to wake and see…” The look in her eyes must have made him think better of the fear. He had not put the mask back on since removing it for her willingly. Perhaps he knew she would not let him.

“Keep writing, it didn’t sound like you were finished,” Christine commanded, trying to sound more light-hearted than she really was. He did not look away from her. “I’m fine. You’ve actually given me an idea,” she reassured him, retreating to her room before he could protest. 

She went directly to her vanity and pulled out her diary. She had not written since the day after she had kissed him the first time. 

The words poured on to the page, her terrible memories and crimes spilling out as fast as she could write them. The performance. Raoul’s love. The fight. She kept writing even when she felt him watching. He would wait for her, she was quite sure of that, the words and her strength and resolve to write them would not. 

_He fell_ , she wrote, and then scrawled it again so forcefully she smeared the ink. She continued, not stopping to think or regret as she lay out in her slanted hand how Raoul had offered to save her and how she had denied him, then the first night in Erik’s arms. It had not really been their first night, but it had felt like it.

Her pace slowed as and her cheeks grew warm as she confessed to the page, remembering that night and the nights and days since. Her body remembered as well, echoing the words she wrote with a comfortable ache from her core. As had been the case since she had turned away from Raoul and to the Opera, it was so much simpler to think of that embrace and forget everything else. She paused, sensing Erik’s gaze.

“How much detail do you plan on including for posterity?” he asked with a hint of mischief. She gave him a wicked glance and closed the diary firmly. He smiled. His face was easier to look at when he smiled she had discovered; not easy, but easier. “Does it feel better to get it all out of your head?”

“I’m not sure yet,” she answered honestly. 

He knelt so that his face was level with hers and looked at her earnestly. “I want to give you something, but I don’t want you to take it the wrong way,” he told her, his voice more hesitant than usual. 

Christine furrowed her brow but gave a nod. Erik took a deep breath. “I think thievery is in my blood. When my father turned my mother away, she broke into his family home one night and stole a large clutch of his mother’s jewels. She sold them to feed us when I was small, but she kept one thing.” 

Erik placed his hand over Christine’s and she felt something drop into her palm. She pulled her hand away to inspect the object. It was a simple gold ring, like a wedding band. 

“She said my father promised her this, so it belonged to her. When she died, I took it. The gypsies stole it off me when they captured me, but I got it back. It’s all I have of hers.”

“Erik, what would be the wrong way to take this?” Christine asked hesitantly, overcome by the value of the ring and the tenderness in his voice. He surely wasn’t asking her to marry him, when he could not even ask her to love him.

“I just want you to have it,” Erik reassured her. “Everything I have is yours, anything you ask for I would give you. But you seemed so sad and I wanted to give you something special, this was the best thing I could think of.” Christine stared at the ring, taking it carefully between her fingers and feeling its weight. 

“What does it mean if I wear it?” she asked calmly, and Erik gave a regretful smile.

“You said you were mine, well, almost said it,” Erik whispered, looking down at the ring. “I want you to wear this as long as that’s true.” 

Christine smiled sadly as she placed the ring between his fingers. What was the point of saying no? She did belong to him. There was no one coming to save her anymore, nor did she even deserve a rescue. She held out her right hand. She would not wear her promise like a wedding ring. He would not expect her to. His hand was steady as he pushed the circle of gold onto her finger.

“I am yours,” she breathed. She noted that he seemed to be avoiding her eyes as much as she was avoiding his, both of them staring at his hand holding hers. 

At last Erik nodded and stood to leave, surprising her with such restraint. She looked back at the diary, considering if she should add this to her chronicle, or perhaps dress or wash instead.

“Christine,” Erik murmured hesitantly over his shoulder as he stood in the shadow of the door, his eyes downcast and his face hidden. 

“Yes?” She knew he wanted to tell her something important; he always waited to do that until he was better concealed.

“I don’t say this because I know you likely don’t want to hear it most days, and should already know it anyway,” Erik told her, his voice as beautiful and heartbreaking as ever. “But I do love you. I know it doesn’t count for much, but with all of whatever heart I have, I love you.” 

Erik seemed surprised to feel her hand on his shoulder, turning him to face her. She watched the ring gleam on her finger in the candlelight as she touched his face, before she kissed him. 

 

Armand stared at the neatly sealed envelope set on his desk. He had counted the crisp thousand franc notes inside at least three times, so he was sure of the amount. There had been no instructions as to exactly how much the ghost was paid, though the old books had given some guidance: odd sums noted monthly under “miscellaneous expenditures.” Twenty thousand francs had seemed high, but given the increased patronage of the De Chagnys, it was not so bad. He was glad Richard had again chosen not to show his face in the office for the day.

Armand walked through the empty halls towards the foyer, emerging conveniently on the grand tier. It was strange, that a theater so full of opulence and light could at the same time be so full of shadows and quiet stillness when the audience was gone. He had heard the tales of course of the places far beneath the theater, in the five levels of cellars, where it was always quiet and dark. He hoped he would never have to visit there. 

Box five unlocked with a dull click and Armand suppressed a shiver of fear as he entered. The auditorium was darker than he had ever seen it. The chandelier loomed above the red velvet seats like a coiled dragon of crystal and gold, waiting, as a single lamp burned on the stage.

Armand placed the envelope onto the little shelf, where patrons would place their hats. Even if the ghost waited to collect his pay, the money was safe. No one would venture into box five alone without a reason, not after Buquet. 

“I hope this is satisfactory,” he muttered to the shadows, trying to sense if he was alone or not. There was no charge in the air today, as there had been the last time he’d entered the box, only resigned silence. There was something about it though that seemed to demand reverence; like a church, or a tomb. 

Armand shivered again, and crossed himself. He had not done such a thing since he was a boy, he thought, as he turned and left the ghost’s box, retreating back to the safe confines of his office as swiftly as he could. It had seemed like the right thing to do though. Just as it seemed right to say a silent prayer for whatever soul was trapped in the shadows, ghost or not.

 

Shaya wished that the miserable pension he received from home was enough to afford him use of a carriage more often. It was cold work, to stand in the street waiting and watching. At least today he was spared the sight of the Opera house. Firmin Richard had been easy to follow, once Shaya had caught sight of him. 

Like many in the upper class he moved through the world without the slightest regard for those around him, the beggar in the street, the businessman of the corner, or the foreign detective who had been following at his heels for two days. The man did not seem to enjoy staying at his own house and instead spent a great deal of time at a flat on the Boulevard des Capucines. 

Shaya had thought it was a mistress at first, but the most terrible screams had come from the place the night before. Servants and others came and went from the flat, and when Richard left a quarter of an hour earlier, he had looked pale and troubled.

Shaya had not followed Richard. The man had been heading in the direction of the Opera and Shaya was not yet prepared to mount another attack on Erik’s fortress. He wanted to know what or who was in the flat. The door opened the moment he knocked.

“Are you another doctor?” the maid asked breathless. 

Shaya paused for a moment, considering if this was the best time to lie. The maid apparently took his silence for a yes and pulled him into the flat.

“The last doctor said she should be moved some place safer, sir, but she won’t hear of it!” the maid continued as she guided Shaya through the parlor and into a bedroom. The air in the room was stale and smelled of sweat and medicine. “She’s been quiet since Monsieur Richard came. He’s the only one who calms her…”

Shaya gaped at the woman lying in the canopied bed, staring out the window with glassy, vacant eyes. The woman’s face was familiar, but he could not place it. Her hair was wild and there were bandages wrapped around her throat. She gave a small twitch as he stepped closer and the floorboards creaked.

“What happened to her?” Shaya asked in horror, keeping his voice low. 

“We thought she was getting better, after what happened during her last _Faust_ , but a few days ago, she just went…mad.” Shaya felt his insides grow cold as he realized whom the woman was. “We barely know what to do, sir. She has fits and starts screaming about ghosts and demons.”

“Ghosts?” Shaya echoed. “What does she say the ghost has done to her?”

“Nothing, sir, but she says that ‘she’ will send him after her. No one can get it out of her who ‘she’ is.” Shaya swallowed grimly. He knew exactly who it was. He so hated being right.

“Does she say anything else?” The maid opened her mouth to answer but a small, sad moan came from the bed. The maid moved quickly to her mistress, fear filling her face rather than care.

“Who is that?” Carlotta rasped.

“It is a new doctor, Signora, Monsieur…” The maid answered and looked up at Shaya. Carlotta’s eyes followed then grew wide.

“No, no, god in heaven, no…” the fallen diva gasped, scrambling backwards from Shaya until she was clutching the headboard. She recognized him. He knew he should leave but was too sick and horrified to move. “Please God, no! Tell your master I won’t come back! Tell her I want to live!”

“Signora, please,” the maid whimpered, trying to calm the woman, but she had already started clawing at her throat and weeping. 

“I’m not his,” Shaya told her, though he doubted she would listen. “I’m going to make him pay though.”

“No! He will come for me! Just like she came!” Carlotta screamed and Shaya stumbled back from the blood-chilling sound as it broke into a wretched, guttural howl. 

He backed out of the room, unable to take his eyes off the mad woman as her maid struggled to push her back down. He finally turned and ran when he felt the door at his back. He charged out onto the street, disregarding the disgruntled huffs and cries as he pushed his way down the boulevard towards the Opera, the sound of her screams still in his ear. 

 

Erik loved the sound of her cries, he thought as she arched her back, her head falling against his chest. He could barely think of any sound she made he did not adore; her song, a promise, his name whispered in the shadows. 

They had been singing mere moments ago, Alfredo and Violetta’s duet, then he had touched her and now she was in his arms. He pulled her closer to him, burying his face in her loose hair as his fingers continued their work. She gave another moan and he smiled outside of her vision.

“What is that sound…” she panted as he bent to kiss her neck. He could not understand the question; the only thing he heard was her. Then the sound of a distant bell came again. Erik froze, listening. Again the ringing came. He pulled away from her quickly, letting her skirts fall back in place. 

“What is going on?” she asked, leaning on the piano.

“Someone is on the lake.” Christine’s flushed cheeks grew instantly pale as Erik sped to the door.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. 

Erik caught her eyes darkly. “The lake is not safe for strangers.” 

Christine’s eyes widened in fear. “I’m coming with you,” she stated firmly, rushing to his side and seizing her dark cloak.  
“No.” Erik replied immediately, grabbing her hands. “I don’t know who is out there, I’m not going to let…”

“I’m coming with you,” her voice was nearly as adamant as her glare. “I’ll stay in the shadows on the dock, I’ll be safe, but I am coming with you.” 

Erik sighed angrily as she twisted her hand free and swept her cloak around her shoulders.

“One day I will learn how useless it is to argue with you,” he muttered as they stepped into the darkness. “Stay here,” he ordered somewhat uselessly as he set off around the edge of the lake. 

He could hear the sound of the boat moving through the water. He had left it on the far bank days before, when he had brought Christine up through her dressing room before _Rigoletto_. He swore under his breath at the oversight. It was of slight consolation to remind himself that he had been extremely distracted since then.

Erik moved gingerly at the edge of the water, completely quiet. He could see the lantern, one point of light on the prow of the boat and a second reflected on the water. At the stern was a man struggling with the pole. Of course it was a struggle; he was not taking the right course. 

The moment Erik thought it the man gave a furious cry as the boat bucked beneath him. Erik swore again as the interloper splashed into the dark water and Erik recognized the sound of his cries. He would not let Christine see another corpse so soon.

The water was as incredibly cold as Erik remembered it when he dove in. It was not clean either and was thick with silt and grime and who knew what else. His muscles were screaming but he was by the boat in moments. He took a deep, angry breath before diving below the surface. It was almost impossible to see but the muffled, bubbling sound of screams and struggle was enough to guide him. 

His hands seized on the shoulders of the intruder and hauled him from the snare he had been trapped in. They burst back into the air, both gasping. Erik knew his boat and was able to steadily pull himself back in first, and then drag the sputtering Persian after him.

“Goddamn you, Daroga, did I not warn you!” Erik bellowed, looming above the other man and grabbing the discarded pole. 

Shaya coughed up another lung full of water and glowered at Erik. 

“Did you really think the only thing protecting my home was water and darkness?” Erik dug the pole into the water at the correct angle and pushed them back towards the far shore and safety. “What was your plan, may I ask? Just wander down here and pop by for a visit? Were you going to talk to me or just shoot me? Of course I know you have that ridiculous pistol you always carry. The powder is wet now so don’t bother.” 

Shaya’s hand fell from where he had been reaching for his waistcoat pocket and he stared up at Erik with pure loathing.

“Why did you kill Joseph Buquet?” Shaya rasped through gritted teeth. 

“I was under the impression the man’s death was a suicide,” Erik answered sharply. “Do you really think I’m stupid enough to kill a man and leave his body hanging above my stage?”

“I don’t pretend to know what sort of madness drives you,” Shaya spat back. “And what about Carlotta?” Erik gave a hearty scoff. “The woman has been driven mad, Erik!” Shaya tried to yell then doubled over with another fit of coughing. “I saw what has happened to her…”

“And then you had to just run down here and face me, did you?” Erik knew from Shaya’s angry glance that this was the truth. “You fucking idiot.”

“The man saw your face! And I saw him snooping near your little soprano’s dressing room. What else did he see that was worth killing him for? Did you have to destroy that woman? Was driving her off the stage not enough of an amusement for you?” Shaya continued furiously.

“Is this the great crime you’ve been waiting for, Daroga?” Erik asked back, trying to sound bored. “A suicide and a bitch of a soprano gone mad? A fate I assure you no one who met her would pity.” 

“I know you are behind this,” Shaya growled. “I know what kind of monster you are, I will see justice!” 

“Where is your proof, detective?” Erik hissed back, leaning down so that Shaya could see the very same face he believed condemned Buquet. The Persian shuddered but did not turn away.

“Where is Christine Daaé?” Shaya echoed grimly. Erik’s hands tightened around the pole as he held Shaya’s eyes. “She, or you, did something to Carlotta. I know she’s something to you, though I can’t even begin to imagine what.” 

Erik stared at the man that had hunted him for so long and imagined Christine, wrapped in the shadows yards away, holding her breath and waiting. It was true. A man that hated him as much as Shaya did would never imagine what Christine was to him. 

“I can’t reach you, but her I can…” Shaya gasped as Erik’s hand locked on his neck.

“Threaten her and you will not be so lucky next time you do something this stupid,” Erik commanded as pushed Shaya away on to the prow. “Christine Daaé is the reason you are still alive, Daroga,” Erik told him slowly. Shaya blinked in surprise. “Don’t you think it occurred to me before going after you how much easier my life would be if your miserable existence were to end? I did not have to save you, but I did and she is why.”

“You’re lying,” Shaya muttered obstinately.

“Whatever the reason, I have saved your life _again_ ,” Erik shrugged as they came at last to the edge of the lake. “So even if I did kill that bloody stagehand, this puts me even in your books as I recall.”

“It does not work that way,” Shaya grumbled. Erik stepped back and bowed, sneering as he gestured for the Persian to leave the boat. 

“I believe it does, Daroga,” Erik intoned coldly. Shaya gave him another glare as he stumbled from the boat.

“I will find a way, Erik, I swear I will,” Shaya vowed, years of hate simmering behind his eyes. “I will find the way to reach you and I will come for you, and if I have to I will not come alone.” Erik laughed coldly at this. Shaya was undeterred. “If I find one person that even knows your name, I will tell them everything and I will lead them to your door.”

“Do that, Daroga,” Erik smirked. “You are good at leading men to their deaths.” 

Shaya started instinctively for his useless pistol, fury flaring in his face. Erik shook his head calmly, holding up the pistol in his own pale hand. The weapon gave a dull splash as Erik threw it into the water. 

The Daroga turned with a frustrated cry, and started up the labyrinthine path to the daylight world. It would take him a long time without a light and without knowing the way, only his hate and rage to warm him. Erik smiled to himself, amused by the strange new thought that he was the one who had someone waiting for him in the dark.

 

Christine barely stopped herself from pulling Erik out of the boat and embracing him when the small craft approached the dock. Instead she just stared, her heart pounding.

“Did you hear all of that?” Erik asked easily. 

Christine shook her head. “I heard him mention Buquet and Carlotta,” Christine swallowed uneasily. “And me.”

“I made it very clear to him that threatening you would be a very bad idea,” Erik reassured her. “And his over-developed sense of honor will keep him from any more attempts at reaching me, for a while at least.” 

Christine shook her head worriedly as she took Erik’s cold hand to guide him inside. She caught his faint smile as she opened the hidden door without his help for the first time. 

“God, you’re soaking,” she muttered in consternation, pulling Erik automatically towards the fire and encountering no resistance from him. She avoided his eyes as she pushed him down to the floor and began pulling off his sodden shirt. Her hands were shaking terribly as Erik caught them in his. 

“Christine, he won’t come back. No one else is in danger right now,” Erik murmured tenderly. 

“He had a gun,” Christine stated, finally daring to meet Erik’s gaze. His eyes narrowed in confusion. “He came here to destroy you.”

“You were worried about me?” Erik asked bluntly, as if it was something he had never considered. 

“Of course I was, you ninny,” Christine sighed angrily. She touched Erik’s arm gently, wishing she could warm the cold, damp skin and trying not to imagine what would have happened if the Persian had not fallen into the water. “Of course I was.”

“Its just water,” Erik attempted. “And I’ve been shot before, it’s not so bad.”

“Erik!” she cried. 

He pulled her hand to a scar on the left side of his abdomen, just below his ribs, a bit wider and longer than her thumb.

“See, all he would do is leave a scar,” Erik consoled her. “That’s all Shaya is: a scar. He can’t hurt me now.”

“Some scars always hurt, and you know it,” Christine argued, shaking her head. “And they never let you forget.” The words made tears come to her eyes. She had tried so hard for days to forget everything. She had lost herself in passion and music and the dark, but the past kept finding her in her dreams; written in scars on her lover’s very skin. 

“We can try though,” Erik whispered, pressing her palm to his side. “A scar means we’ve healed.” 

She breathed deeply, unwilling to let fear and memory take her yet. She touched the scar he had shown her softly before bending down and kissing it. The familiar taste of his skin was mixed with the taste of water. 

It was strange though, because she had always thought there was something about his taste or scent even before that reminded her of the sea. He shivered, either from the chill or the touch of her lips, or perhaps both. She moved to another, long and thin, with a twin a few inches beside it.

“What happened here?” she asked quietly, tracing the pale line of white with her fingertips. 

“A knife fight in Russia when I was fifteen,” Erik told her with surprising warmth. “I obviously lost.” She kissed the scars, making sure her lips touched each inch of them. 

Her hand moved to another beneath his ribs. “Gypsy dagger.” She kissed it listened to him sigh. 

Her hands strayed to his back, there were many more there, a jagged crisscross of long, brutal lines. “The Gypsies used whips too.” 

He brought his wrists front of her, so she could clearly see the many circles around them. “And chains.”

“Erik,” she breathed in sympathy as her lips caressed the marks and he lay back onto the floor, the firelight turning his skin a golden color and making the raised scars shine even brighter. Her kisses continued up his arms, her hands questioning him.

“Mirrors, cage bars, more fights.” 

She came to the strange place at the top of his right arm where the skin was alternately rippled and smooth. She traced the withered looking flesh at the edges. “The fire that brought me here.” 

She pressed her lips to the old burns, shaking now as much as he was and desperately praying she could make the past disappear. She kissed his chest, finding more wounds from blades and fires etched into his flesh. Finally she gazed into his face and caressed the long scar on the left side. 

“My mother,” he confessed, his voice barely louder than the sound of the fire beside them. “She tried to cut it off once. It didn’t help, just gave me another reason to hide.”

“You don’t have to hide from me,” she promised before kissing him. 

She kept up the kiss as he unfastened the front buttons of her dress, quickly loosening it enough to push it off her shoulders then past her waist. She unfastened his soaking trousers, pressing herself against the expanse of his cold skin. The fire did not seem to be warming him yet, even though she was beginning to sweat. He pulled her into an embrace and began to turn her onto her back but she drew away, shaking her head. She did not want to be lost in a kiss this time, or hidden in the dark. She did not want him behind her or his face hidden in her hair or between her legs. 

“I want to see you.”

He gave a long gasp as she pushed him back, straddling him and taking him into her in one fluid movement. She did not look away from his face as she began to move above him, slow and strong. She watched his eyes, refusing to close her own or look away. His eyes were like scars sometimes, she thought distractedly as she quickened the rhythm of her hips. The pain there was gone now, replaced with wonder and passion. He gave a moan, his voice still so incredibly beautiful, and grasped her hands, as she grew closer to her peak. He always seemed to know. She cried out with him, the world disappearing even though her eyes remained open. Christine fell against his chest, savoring the moment of peace, knowing it would not last long enough. His heart was beating fast and his skin was finally warm again.

“How are you even possible?” Erik asked breathlessly, combing his fingers through her hair. “How can you…”

“Magic” Christine whispered as she kissed a scar above his heart she had missed before. Erik caught her hand and touched the ring. 

“Shaya said he would try to find others, to help him hunt me,” Erik confessed suddenly. Christine looked up in worry. 

“Why are you telling me this now?” she demanded.

“Are you sure that boy has given up?” Christine felt her stomach tighten in fear. She had pushed away every thought of Raoul for days, ignoring the stab of regret she felt each time she imagined him in that little church, waiting to save a girl that wasn’t real.

“He has no reason to come after me,” she muttered. “He thinks I am just with some unscrupulous musician, someone who is using legends to manipulate things for me perhaps. Will Shaya seek him out?” 

Erik’s eyes were thoughtful as he regarded her face, touching her cheek gently. “As long as Shaya believes he doesn’t know who or what the ghost really is, no, I don’t think so,” Erik explained, though there was weariness is his voice.

“I’ll never tell him,” Christine promised instantly and Erik gave a faint smile. He already knew how determined she was to keep her worlds separate, to keep her sins and secrets hidden in the dark. 

She kissed him without thinking, pushing away a strange, sad aching that had dogged her since Erik had given her the ring. He pulled her closer, returned the embrace in the shadows and firelight.

 

Sorelli took a small sip of champagne as Philippe and Antoine gave another raucous burst of laughter. She did not like this hotel as much as the Grand, where Philippe usually saw her, nor did she enjoy the presence of Antoine De Martin and his common singer in their parlor. The jewels around her neck were a good start, but Philippe would have to do much more to win back her favor. 

“Where in God’s name is that dour little brother of yours, Philippe?” Antoine demanded loudly, downing another full glass of champagne. Philippe gave an over-dramatic sigh.

“Probably still sulking. He’s been licking his wounds with Yvette Sully for the last few days, doesn’t seem to be working though.” Sorelli noted that her lover’s words showed much more concern than his actual tone.

“Will he be bringing Mademoiselle Sully to join us?” Sorelli asked politely, as Antoine dealt a new hand of cards. 

“Yvette Sully is a proper lady, she wouldn’t be seen in this company,” Antoine replied coolly. Sorelli tried to keep her face implacable and saw Adele do the same. 

“He’s still hung up on that friend of yours I think,” Philippe grumbled in Adele’s direction and the singer gave a satisfied smile.

“He’ll have much better luck with his proper lady then,” Adele answered with clear delight. She had drunk far more champagne than Sorelli and was much freer with her words. “Christine has a far more enticing prospect than your little brother.”

“Oh stop that nonsense,” Sorelli snapped and Philippe gave her a curious look. “Christine is not controlling the ghost or whatever the rumor is today.” 

“I didn’t say anything about a ghost,” Adele shrugged, a small glint in her eyes. “From what I’ve seen and heard she’s got someone completely of flesh. What I wouldn’t give to have a lover like hers who talked like that. Of course, the ghost is supposed to have a pretty voice though, isn’t he?”

“A voice as beautiful as his face is ugly,” a serious voice recited from the parlor door. 

Sorelli was rather surprised to see Adele’s face fall when she looked up at Raoul de Chagny. His expression was perplexed, as if he was trying to solve a vexing riddle.

“Monsieur Vicomte,” Adele greeted him uneasily. 

“Come little brother, sit down and have a drink,” Philippe grinned. “If Yvette was too boring, we can certainly find you a friend for the night if you wish.”

“You’ve heard him too then?” Raoul continued, not looking away from Adele. “You’ve _seen_ this teacher of hers?” 

Adele stared at the young noble, her face fraught with apprehension. “Ask her about him,” Adele answered uneasily and began to get up from the table. Antoine grabbed her wrist roughly and pulled her back down.

“I have and all I get is more questions without answers,” Raoul snapped. “I have no idea what to think anymore. One day she is exactly as I knew her before, the next she turns cold and runs from me,” Raoul continued, advancing on Adele as his voice rose. “She disappears into thin air and everyone says she is somehow entangled with this damn ghost, that he makes things happen for her. I hear an angel of music speaking to her. The only answer I can think of is that she is in the thrall of your damn Phantom, which is not an answer at all. So if you have heard or seen something, you will bloody well tell me!” 

“Christine’s secrets are her own,” Adele stated grimly. 

Antoine rolled his eyes and struck her before anyone else could say a word.

“Monsieur!” Sorelli cried, springing up from her seat as Adele held a hand to her cheek. 

“A man only does that to me once,” Adele declared, her eyes were full of hurt and anger as she attempted to leave again. 

Antoine rose after her and grabbed her roughly by the hair. Sorelli was the only one to cry out. The De Chagny brothers only looked on in horror as their friend forced Adele to look at him. She gave a whimper and he slapped her again.

“Tell my dear friend here what you heard and saw, you stupid whore,” Antoine ordered as Adele struggled, tears in her eyes. “You’re mine, bought and paid for, and you will do as I say.”

“Antoine, not like this…” Raoul protested at last and Sorelli gave a sigh of relief, but Antoine did not let go of Adele. Philippe rose and took her hand. 

“Tell us what the man looked like,” Antoine commanded icily. Adele gave him a defiant glare.

“Come, we’re done here tonight,” Philippe muttered, pulling Sorelli towards the door and turning away from the sight of Adele still attempting futilely to struggle away. He tugged at Raoul’s sleeve.

“Yes, please go. I’ll let you know as soon as I can what I find out from my little songbird, Raoul, don’t worry,” Antoine sneered. His face was bright with the drink and his eyes were shining with cruelty.

“I don’t want to know this way, Antoine,” Raoul protested darkly. 

Sorelli wanted to agree aloud but the look in Antoine’s face and Philippe’s firm grasp on her wrist made her think better of it. This was not a fight she belonged in the middle of or one she could win. 

“I’ll be gentle, don’t worry,” Antoine purred, pulling Adele closer and roughly touching her face. Sorelli looked away, unable to bear the sight as Philippe guided her and Raoul from the room. She twisted out of Philippe’s grip in disgust as the door closed behind them, feeling utterly sick.

“She’ll be fine,” Philippe assured her and Raoul. “She knows what she is and what she should expect taking up with a man like him. This is no more than she asked for.” 

Sorelli turned away, striding down the hallway and trying not to shake in fear or anger. She never wanted to see the face of a patron again, she told herself loudly in her mind, wishing it could drown out the muffled sounds of Adele DuVal’s screams.


	12. Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is a monster, really?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, trigger/content warnings for discussion of violence against women/sexual assault.

Christine took a deep breath before stepping out of her dressing room door. She prayed the rehearsal would be quick and simple as she tugged nervously at the high, tight collar of her magenta gown. Erik had teased her for wearing something so “conservative,” and she had chided him back for making it so she had to. The thought made her smile as she set off into the bustling halls. It was astounding how loud and bright everything seemed. The contrast to the house on the lake, or even to the calm dark behind the mirror as Erik had kissed her on parting, made her head spin and ache.

She was surprised that neither Meg nor Adele found her before she made it to the stage. They would not be needed in rehearsal for several hours though, perhaps they were enjoying their time. The morning would be devoted to refining _Rigoletto_ and the afternoon would begin preparation for the gala the next week.

Christine surveyed the theater. There were groups of singers gossiping and laughing, a mezzo who knew no better flirting with a violist in the orchestra pit; Bosarge reviewing his score, stroking his white beard distractedly. Mercier was arguing with Carlos Fontana, likely the same argument they always had regarding their disagreement as to the delivery of his bravura aria. No one seemed to be looking up towards the dark flies. Christine kept her eyes to the earth as well.

“You look lovely today, my dear,” Robert Rameau’s friendly, rumbling voice complimented from beside her. Christine gave a weak smile. “Ready for another great performance?”

“I will be by Friday,” Christine shrugged. Robert flashed her a wicked grin.

“I wasn’t talking about that performance.” Christine sighed, glancing over the crowd again: her audience.

“I’m never quite ready for this one,” she told her friend.

 

Meg rushed from the dance studio as quickly as she could without attracting too much attention. She caught one of the chaperones giving her a glare, but it was no worse than usual. Her scuffed pointe shoes made little sound as she scurried through the halls towards the auditorium. The singers were rehearsing today, which meant there was a chance she could catch Christine, or even better, that Raoul might be about attempting to do the same. Meg stopped dead in her tracks as she turned the corner and saw the Persian.

He did not see her, she realized, before she yelped or jumped. He was looking carefully at the walls it seemed, as if he expected to find something. Meg backed up slowly, gooseflesh rising on her arms. No one had seen the Persian in the Opera for a year, or so she had been told. Seeing him so soon after Buquet’s death gave her a terrible, cold feeling.

She rushed faster than before down a different path to the stage. Her heart leapt when she saw Christine, nodding as Bosarge excused everyone until the afternoon. Meg nearly crashed directly into her friend as she turned towards the wings.

“There you are,” Christine smirked as Meg caught her breath. “What is it today?” Meg scowled. She did not like being predictable.

“I saw the Persian in one of the East corridors, if you really care,” Meg grumbled, remembering a bit too late that she was still cross with her friend for disappearing again. The look of true concern on Christine’s face was a bit of a consolation however.

“What was he doing?” Christine asked seriously.

“Just looking at the walls, he didn’t notice me,” Meg replied, realizing as she said it that it was not as sinister as she had thought. Christine did not seem to agree. Her face was dark and she was already turning to go. “Where are you going?” Meg demanded, sounding much angrier than she had expected to.

“I just wanted to rest before the afternoon,” Christine muttered, completely oblivious.  
Meg gaped after her friend as she rushed quickly off the stage, strangely not in the direction of her dressing room. Meg gave a small stomp of her foot. Again she was completely forgotten.

 

“I know he’s here,” Erik told Christine the moment she stepped into the darkened prop room. She did not even flinch as he struck a match and lit the gas jet, only gave him a very familiar doubtful glower.

“ _Why_ is he here?” she pushed, not waiting for Erik to follow her as she strode towards her old bed. “You told me he would not come after us.”

“He still wants to find me, now more than ever,” Erik answered calmly. “Giving him the impression he is making progress will distract him.”

“You _let him in_?” Christine guessed, her face incredulous. Erik gave a shrug and Christine shot him another extremely impressive glare as she sat forcefully on the edge of the old prop bed.

“I want him where I can keep control of him,” Erik explained. “Don’t worry.” Erik sat down beside her, noting as she rolled her eyes that he was enjoying her irritated concern for his safety a bit too much. “I have something to cheer you up.”

“Why does that worry me even more?” Christine shot back, and Erik laughed quietly, deep in his throat. He withdrew the small envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to her. He smiled impishly as she looked inside and gasped.

“I almost forgot it’s a new month, good thing I decided to use my box to watch rehearsal,” he commented as she started at the money. “I did retain a bit for my own expenses, if you plan on counting it.”

“Why…” Christine floundered, shaking her head in clear bewilderment.

“You told me next time they paid me this much to give it to the poor. I know you’re not really destitute anymore, but I’m certain you’ll find a much worthier use for it than I would,” Erik explained easily.

“You…” Christine stopped, finally looking back up at him, her face both amazed and flustered. “You are impossible. What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Well if you don’t want it,” Erik offered, reaching for the envelope.

Christine snatched it away, holding it to her chest. “I’ll find something to do with it,” she assured him, laughter edging on her voice. Even the hint of her laughter made his heart feel lighter.

He made one more useless grab for the envelope and she laughed again. She kept smiling as she unbuttoned her high collar and tucked the money safely into her bodice, happily affording him a glimpse of her skin. Her eyes were soft and thoughtful as she looked back up at him, defiantly redoing the buttons. She carefully touched his mask.

“It’s almost strange to see you with it on again,” she murmured as he caught her hand in his. He closed his eyes and savored the warm feel of her skin and sound of her words.

“When do you have to get back?” he asked her breathlessly, opening his eyes and loving the flush that crept into her cheeks. He was kissing her before she could answer.

“Too soon for this many buttons,” she whispered, pulling back, but not so far that he believed she meant it.

“That is disappointing,” he murmured. A wicked glimmer spread from her eyes to her smile that made his heart begin to race.

“I don’t ever want to disappoint you,” she teased, her hands sliding beneath his dark cape as she kissed him again. Her hands continued lower and he shivered. “Lie back and close your eyes.”

 

The halls had become slightly less crowded since the rehearsal had recommenced above, Shaya thought thankfully. He was about to give Erik some grudging credit for having been able to avoid being caught for so many years when he saw the shadow in the second cellar, near the empty set workshops.

“There you are,” he muttered to himself as he caught the flash of white beneath the brim of the ghost’s hat. The sight of the mask made Shaya remember the awful vision of Erik’s face, inches from his, challenging him for proof and never seeming more like a monster.

He followed carefully, praying to Allah he would not step on some creaking floorboard or breath too loudly and alert Erik to his presence. Blessedly, Erik seemed intent enough on his destination not to look behind him. Shaya even swore he heard humming coming from the silhouette, as if the madman was simply taking a leisurely afternoon stroll. It made Shaya cringe.

He followed Erik down a dark flight of steps, to the third cellar in an area Shaya was quite sure was almost directly below the back of the stage. Huge, hibernating sets were stored there, in narrow rows, waiting to be lifted up and used above, a sylvan glade pressed next to a pyramid and a fantastical castle. Shaya cocked his head curiously as the shadow he followed stopped at the edge of a rather plain looking piece, an old backdrop of a stone wall of an Indian palace, perhaps from _La Roi de Lahore_.

Shaya held his breath as Erik pressed a skeletal hand to the backdrop and a trap door opened before him, leading to complete darkness. It was no surprise at all to Shaya when Erik slipped through the opening, disappearing into the black, the passage closing instantly behind him. Shaya turned and rushed back upwards, his heart leaping in triumph. He had finally found the way. It was only a matter of time before the monster would give him a reason to follow it.

 

Erik leaned back against the smooth surface of the wall, thankful for the darkness. He could almost hear Shaya’s thoughts as he scurried back to his miserable little flat to scribble notes in his ridiculous black book. _At last I have you_.

Erik smiled to himself, still feeling deliciously relaxed and powerful after the encounter with Christine. The memory of her warm mouth was enough to drive back the vague sense of guilt as he triggered the mechanism to leave the pitch-dark room. He stepped quickly into the house on the lake, avoiding catching his reflection in the cruel mirror before the secret door slid shut behind him again.

As far as Christine knew, it was just a wall to the left of the organ. Just the way that the Daroga likely thought what he had discovered was just another way into Erik’s home, the path he would take when the time finally came to rescue to princess from the evil monster.

Erik drifted to the shelf of his music, trailing his fingers over the keys of the organ and then up to the great red score that waited among his other compositions like an open wound. What would Shaya think of that, Erik thought darkly? There was no reason Christine ever had to know about what was in there. She had never asked about it. Hiding it was not a lie. Just like showing Shaya the second, secret path to his home was not a death sentence.

Erik turned away from the unfinished work, looking instead at the pile of music that had been accumulating on the piano over the last week. That music of love and passion had been pouring out of him since she had kissed him, so much sweeter than _Don Juan’s_ songs of vengeance and hate. There was no need for such darkness, not while she was his, while she would smile at him or shock him the way she had just done. The only reason anyone would ever hear his masterpiece would be if she left.

That thought was dark enough to make his heart fall. Perhaps Shaya thought the Opera was safe now, because the ghost was under the control of the angel, who would keep him from shedding more blood. It was partly true. He did not want to kill or put more lives on Christine’s conscience. What Shaya could not understand though was that this made him more dangerous than before, if one looked at it the right way. A man with something worth killing for was far more dangerous than a man with no hope. Erik glanced back at the innocuous wall; not regretting for a moment what was behind it.

 

“Is that from me?” Robert asked casually, giving a meaningful look to Christine’s right hand as he threw a scarf around his neck. “I don’t recall even proposing.”

“Wrong hand,” Christine countered. “And if you had I would be sure to have told you,” she added, instinctively touching the ring. Robert was the first to have noticed, or at least commented. There were days when Christine believed he was the second smartest man in the Opera. She looked over the stage, past the gaggle of dancers to the female chorus. “Have you seen Adele?”

“No actually,” Robert answered after a moment’s thought and seemed to find the realization just as worrisome as Christine did. He followed her as she made her way across the stage to the dancers. Jammes seemed surprised and not a little scared when Christine came up to her.

“Did you see Adele today?” Christine asked the dancer, answering rudeness with the same.

“I didn’t see her at breakfast if that’s what you mean,” Jammes sneered.

“I saw her.”

Christine spun to face the source of the voice. It was Sorelli, the prima ballerina, a person who Christine could barely recall even giving her a second glance. Her face was as grim as her voice had been and her thin, willowy body was incredibly tense. Christine took the dancer’s arm, drawing her away from the curious crowd.

“Is she alright?” Christine demanded shakily, her worry rising. Sorelli shook her head slowly. “What happened?”

“Antoine De Martin happened,” Sorelli answered, her face twisting in disgust. “I was with her last night, with Philippe De Changy and his brother and…” Sorelli swallowed. “He wanted to know something she didn’t want to tell. Something about you.”

Christine felt as if the world was giving way under her feet. “Raoul was there?” The thought made her almost as sick as imagining what they had wanted to know from Adele and what might have happened to her.

“He left, along with Philippe and I, when things started….going wrong,” Sorelli replied, perhaps trying to sound reassuring. “I came back a few hours later and made sure she got home.”  
Christine’s eyes widened as she read the memories in the dancer’s face. Adele was assuredly not alright. “You should go see her.”

“Thank you,” Christine muttered as sincerely as she could, rushing off the stage towards her dressing room. The halls were still busy, and stagehands and choristers gave her angry looks as she pushed her way through.

The gaslights were dark as she opened the door. She grabbed her cloak from its hook without needing to see it. She did not need to see him to know he was there either.

“Something has happened to Adele. She’s been hurt I think. I have to go,” she explained hastily to the shadows.

“Go,” Erik commanded without missing a beat.

“I’ll return when…” Christine was at a loss.

“I’ll come for you, don’t worry,” Erik reassured her. She did not waste time considering what he meant.

“I…thank you,” she muttered, sweeping her cloak around her shoulders and speeding back into the halls.

She rushed even faster than before, thinking darkly to herself that everyone who wished they would see her actually leave the Opera would certainly have their wish granted today. The way back to the Hotel St. Claude had never seemed so long or so noisy, crowded and bright in the afternoon sun. The air was still cold and hurt her lungs as she ran, panting, through the streets. She burst through the red door into the parlor, loud enough to disrupt Valerius’ rest beside the fire.

“Oh, now you come back! You’re two weeks late on rent, girl,” the old woman cried as Christine darted up the stairs, ignoring her. Adele’s room was locked.

“Adele?” Christine called, knocking and receiving no reply. She pulled Erik’s skeleton key from her pocket, praying it would work. “Adele, it’s Christine…” the lock gave way and Christine pushed into the room. She gasped as Adele looked up from her bed.

“Christine, I’m sorry…”

Christine’s hand flew to her mouth as she looked at her friend. Her face was livid with bruises on one side, her lip split. Christine could tell just by the way Adele was breathing that she was in great pain. Her hair was loose and the dress she wore was dirty and torn.

“Oh God, Adele, no,” Christine breathed, rushing to the bed. “I’m sorry.” Adele flinched as Christine reached out for her, and Christine swallowed back her tears. “I’m so sorry.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything to him…” Adele muttered, turning her eyes away.

Christine sat carefully on the edge of the rickety brass bed, taking her friend’s hand.  
“Do you need a doctor?” she asked worriedly.

Adele shook her head. “I’ll be fine,” Adele stated without much confidence. “And I don’t want any more men touching me right now.”

“Let me help,” Christine whispered, and Adele looked at her, doubtful and curious. “Tell me where that tea of yours is.”

Adele did not resist as Christine attended to her, helping her change and wash, bringing her tea and helping her back into bed. Each movement made her wince in pain and each wince made Christine’s heart break a bit more. At last Adele was settled more comfortably and Christine finally dared to look her in the eye.

“What happened?”

“Antoine,” Adele confirmed. “That Vicomte of yours came in and wanted to know who I had seen you with. I didn’t want to tell them, but he…” Adele’s voice broke. “I thought it might make him stop. It didn’t.”

“Adele…” Christine whispered sickly.

“How do they do it, do you think?” Adele asked bleakly, scratching distractedly at her thin coverlet. “How can they make some thing that feels so good when you want it, hurt so much when you don’t?”

Christine closed her eyes on new tears. “This is all my fault,” she groaned, shaking her head. “Everything is my fault.”

“No.” Adele’s voice was so forceful it shocked Christine. “Don’t say that. This was him, Christine. Not you, _him_.”

Christine swallowed, uneasily looking back at Adele. The steadfastness in her friend’s eyes was astonishing. Christine breathed deeply, smelling the mildew from the walls, glancing about the room to the faded pictures and peeling paint. Antoine had been Adele’s hope of escaping this wretched corner of the world.

“Adele, I have to ask you what you told him,” Christine finally ventured.

“He kept asking what I saw, and I kept telling him I didn’t see anything,” Adele began weakly. “The worst part is that I guess that was true, because the man I saw, the one you were with, the one whose voice I heard in your dressing room…was wearing a mask.” Christine sighed in exhaustion. At least she didn’t have to lie for a while. “I didn’t mean to look, truly, just like I didn’t mean to listen, but that voice…I had to see what sort face belonged to that voice.”

“I can’t blame you for that,” Christine muttered, wondering how many others would end up suffering just because they had wanted to see Erik. “And you told Antoine about the mask.”

Adele gave a slow nod. “Christine, what did I see?”

She gave Adele a desolate look.

“All those stories, about you controlling the ghost…they’re all true aren’t they?”

“I don’t control him, Adele,” Christine confessed tiredly.

“And he’s not a ghost,” Adele finished for her. Christine closed her eyes. It was the first time someone had really said it aloud and it seemed to make Erik and all that her life had become since discovering him that much more terribly real. “That’s what he lied about, that hurt you so much, isn’t it?”

“Don’t ask me who he is, please,” Christine begged quietly. “For both our sakes.”

“He loves you though. I heard it in his voice,” Adele guessed quietly and Christine met Adele’s bloodshot eyes again in confirmation. “Do you love him?”

“You told me not to fall in love,” Christine countered, shutting the question from her mind before even considering it.

Adele gave a sad approximation of a smile, impeded by her swollen cheek. “I did tell you that, didn’t I?” Adele agreed sadly. She took Christine’s hand and squeezed it. “I will miss you and your mysteries, Christine Daaé.”

“Miss me?” Christine parroted in confusion.

“I can’t stay here, not without a job or…” Adele explained in resignation. “If I’m not fired yet, Antoine will certainly see to it.”

“That will _not_ happen,” Christine almost growled, her anger rising at the thought. Adele cocked her head in confusion. “He will be the one who won’t be setting foot in the Opera.”

“How…” Adele stopped, the worried look in her eyes showing she realized exactly how Christine could assure such a thing.

Christine avoided looking at her friend’s frightened expression by fumbling at the buttons of her collar. She delved into her bodice and drew out the ridiculous money Erik had given her.

“Here.” She handed Adele a thousand franc note and watched the older woman’s eyes go wide in amazement.

“Christine…” Adele protested.

“Please take it,” Christine ordered desperately, still looking away, her voice near breaking. “I would give you more, but I know this you already think this is too much. Please.”

“Are you sure?” Adele asked, hesitantly taking the bill from Christine’s shaking hand.

Christine nodded vehemently, standing from her seat at the edge of the bed and looking out the window. The sun had set a quarter of an hour before and twilight was swiftly fading to night. Soon the lamplighters would arrive on their stilts and the streets would be full of the familiar orange-gold glow that dimmed the stars. Christine hid the rest of the money in the lining of her cloak, glancing down at the empty Rue de Notre Dame des Victoires.

“Do you have to go back soon?” Adele asked gently from behind her.

Christine nodded slowly, not even sure if she was sad or relieved to know she would not be staying much longer in the real world.

“What is he like?” Adele questioned tentatively.

Christine turned, smiling sadly as she tried to find the right words. “He’s like no one else I’ve ever met,” she answered honestly. “He’s frightening and strange and tragic and…amazing.” Adele’s eyes brightened a bit, though it was hard to see much in the darkening room.

Christine reached automatically for a match to light Adele’s lamp.

“No.” Adele placed her hand over Christine’s. “There’s nothing here I need to see.”

Christine stared at her friend, wondering if there was any place she would ever find herself where the dark would not find her. The sound of a carriage on the uneven cobblestones outside made Christine look back to the window. The brougham had stopped and was waiting patiently. Christine pulled her cloak around her shoulder automatically, suddenly feeling much colder.

“Tell him I am sorry,” Adele whispered.

“You don’t have to be.”

“Then tell him he is lucky, to have someone like you,” Adele amended. Christine wanted to shake her head. Of all the people she had hurt, Erik was certainly the one who suffered the most. He would have been luckier if he had never met her.

“I’ll come see you soon, I promise,” Christine murmured determinedly.

“Bring me good stories,” Adele ordered with a small echo of her former fire.

Christine nodded but did not look back as she left the small room. She would join Erik before the gaslights were even lit.

 

Erik stayed hidden in the shadows of the carriage as he heard the creak of the great front door of the boarding house, followed by a dull thud as it closed and Christine’s soft, deliberate steps. It was Rabindra who sprang down to open the door, just as any proper coachman would do for any proper lady. A curious smirk broke through the seriousness of Christine’s expression as she took her seat beside him.

“This is different,” she commented coolly.

“I try not to be predictable.” She did not seem truly amused though, and her eyes were full of weary sorrow. “Is she alright?”

“She’s hurt very badly,” Christine replied tightly as the carriage began to move. She seemed to be having difficulty even breathing as she continued. “The bastard patron of her, Antoine De Martin, he did it to her. All so he could tell his friend a new story about me…”

“What?” Erik asked in shock, sitting up straighter and reaching for Christine.

She neither relaxed nor drew away when he touched her, simply continued to stare out the window as the nighttime city rolled slowly by.

“He did for Raoul, because Adele accidentally told them she saw me with someone,” Christine explained through gritted teeth. “And she told him she saw a mask, but he didn’t stop. He beat her and he raped her.”

“Because he could,” Erik finished for her, familiar, cold hate rushing through his veins. “Don’t you dare blame yourself,” he commanded before she could say another word. Christine let her head fall into her hands.

“Do we have to go home right away?” she asked tiredly.

Erik stared at her, trying to remember if she had ever called the house on the lake her home before this. He blinked, that was not the point.

“Where would you like to go?” Erik asked thoughtfully.

“Some place that feels far away,” she replied with a sigh, finally sitting back and leaning against him. “I wish there were woods to walk in here.”

“What about the Bois du Boulonge?” he suggested and caught a look of surprise on her face in a brief burst of light from the street.

“Is it safe at night?” Christine asked curiously.

“You’re forgetting who you’re with.” Erik was glad to see a faint smile on her lips. “Rabindra,” he called, rapping on the roof. “We’ll be going to the Bois.”

They did not speak anymore as the carriage rolled leisurely to the outskirts of the city and the great park on the edge of the 16th androisment. Erik watched Christine’s face in the moonlight as she leaned out the window and breathed in the night air as the brougham made its way through the perfectly manicured lawns and woods of the Bois. She watched the world and he watched her, keeping back to the shadows, but holding her hand.

There were voices in the night once in a while: hoots of laughter and drunken cries from far away, lover’s words of adoration and pickpocket’s demands. The sounds of the evening grew quieter as the came up to the great Longchamps raceway, making a lazy circuit of the track. He could see the stars through the windows above the distant lights of the city and wondered which ones she was looking at. The night before they had traded stories about the constellations, as they lay before the fire, staring up at his painted sky. She squeezed his hand and sighed, as if she could hear the melancholy longing in his thoughts and gave him a nod as she caught his eyes. Erik rapped once again on the roof, signaling it was time to return home.

Rabindra was out of his seat in an instant, as they came up along side the Opera and paused in front of the stables on the Rue de Scribe. He gave a Christine a deep bow as he helped her from the carriage.

“I’m so glad to meet you at last,” Christine told Rabindra kindly as Erik joined her on the street. His dark eyes sparkled as he rose and surveyed Christine.

“And I you,” Rabindra echoed, sending Erik an approving glance. “It is a great comfort to know you are real.”

Christine gave a quizzical smile, as if she was not quite sure if she should laugh.

“Eventually we’ll figure the same out about you,” Erik muttered and Rabindra gave him a shrewd smirk.

“Will you need anything else tonight, Sahib?” he asked politely. Erik shook his head and Rabindra turned back to Christine and gave another bow. “It is truly an honor, to meet his Sita.”

Erik shot the man another perturbed glance, which Rabindra pointedly ignored. His annoyance faded when Christine took his hand as they made their way through the stables and to the secret path to the cellars.

“What did that word mean - _Sita_?” Christine asked observantly as Erik lit the lantern. “Is it a title?”

“No, she’s a character in a poem,” Erik explained grudgingly as they descended. “One of the longest and most famous poems in India actually. She’s a princess, the child of the earth and the wife of the hero, prince Rama.”

“Why would he call me that?” Christine pried lightly. Erik was relieved that at least some of the sadness was gone from her voice.

“In the poem Sita is kidnapped by a monstrous demon, a sorcerer named Ravana,” Erik answered a bit sourly.

“The prince saves her though?” Erik nodded as they turned down a flight of stone steps.

“But then he turns her away in the end because he doubts her purity and fidelity,” he told her. “She is exiled, but then the earth that she was born from swallows her to show her virtue.”

“Was he saying you were the prince?” Erik gave her a withering look. Even his servant knew who and what he was, and that would never be a prince or a hero. The thought made him remember why they had been outside the walls of the Opera in the first place and the horrible price Christine’s friend had paid for crossing his monstrous path. They had both lapsed back into brooding quiet when they reentered the house on the lake.

Erik watched her as she moved slowly towards her door, her face stony and her eyes distant. He reached for her and was shocked when she embraced him, holding onto him tightly, burying her face in his shoulder. She did not cry though, only breathed deep and long. She had not cried at all yet for her friend, which troubled him. He tensed in worry as she looked up at him and placed her hand on the mask to remove it.

“Are you sure?” he asked warily. “Haven’t you seen enough horrors for one day?”

Her eyes filled with confusion and familiar pity. “This is not a horror, for me,” she whispered as she lifted off the mask.

Even after so many days with it off and so many nights in her arms, it still amazed him when she looked at him without fear. She set the mask down carefully as she guided him into her room. She touched his scarred, horrible cheek and it made his heart ache.

“I don’t think you are the monster, or the prince,” she murmured gently, pushing back a lock of black hair. He leaned in to kiss her and she did not draw back.

“Then what am I?” he breathed, his lips grazing hers.

She kissed him softly at first, then more urgently, her lips parting and her warm, supple tongue slipping into his mouth. She drew back, her breath quicker and her skin hotter.

  
“You are the earth.”

He closed his eyes as he kissed her again, overcome by her. She embraced him with a desperate hunger, her hands shaking as she tore at his clothes. She gave an encouraging sigh as he set upon the same task with the long line of golden buttons down her front, kissing each inch of skin that he exposed.

He savored the sight of her body when he finally pushed off her last wisp of clothing; the perfect roundness of her breasts, the curve of her waist into her hips, the patch of dark hair, waiting below her stomach. She pulled him back to her impatiently, devouring his mouth again as they stumbled towards her bed.

He kissed her neck and shoulders, his hands running roughly over her arms and chest. He did not close his eyes, for he wanted to see and remember every moment with her. Her eyes were closed tight though. Perhaps it would have hurt another man to see such a thing, or observe the sadness in her expression even as she moaned in pleasure at his touch. Perhaps it did hurt him a bit, but he continued none-the-less.

He understood her, he told himself as she turned beneath him, presenting her flawless back to his hands and lips. He understood the depth of her need to run and to hide; from the world, from the light, from her sorrow, even from the lover that was her escape. To be swallowed whole by the earth and disappear. His hands slid beneath her, one finding her breast, the other delving beyond the dark hair, to a place that made her cry out into the sheets as he touched her. There was no hiding this; there was no lie in the yielding wetness that felt like satin beneath his fingers.

She stifled a deep moan when he lifted her hips and entered her, his hand still upon her. His own delirious pleasure rushed through his veins, sweeping away constraints and memory. He felt so perfect when he was inside her, both needed and healed at the same time, as if every part of him he hated and feared simply melted away.

Her cries came in rhythm with his thrusts as he continued, but there was something rough and distant in the sound. He bent his body, puling her close to him as he kissed her shoulder. Her face was twisted with sadness and her eyes still screwed shut. A few tears had escaped however.

“Let go,” he whispered in her ear, slowing his movement to almost nothing. “Don’t run from it. You’re with me. You’re safe.”

Slowly her eyes opened, meeting his with a look that was utterly lost. He did not break the gaze as he began the move again, holding her tightly against him.

“Tell me,” she sighed, taking his hand that remained on her breast and grasping it tightly. Erik narrowed his eyes, trying to understand as sensation and ecstasy began to drive back his remaining clear thoughts. “I want to hear it, tell me you…”

“I love you.”

Her face was incredibly beautiful as he said the words. He felt her tense and shake, taking him with her as the climax and release trembled through their bodies. She gave another cry, more of a sob than an exclamation of passion and tears finally began to flow freely from her eyes.

He moved quickly to embrace her properly, holding her head to his chest and feeling her tears on his skin. She cried quietly as he stroked her hair, hiding her face once more, but at last trusting him with a glimpse at her heart. He had wept the same way the first time she had kissed him. Whether it had been his love or her release that had broken the dam, he was not sure. All that mattered was holding her now, protecting her from the dark.

 

Richard downed the third glass of brandy in a single gulp. He poured another with steady hands, consciously declining to offer any to his guests. The dour faced men had not even bothered to remove their coats and still held their hats in their hands.

“Why in God’s name have you come to me about this?” he demanded angrily of the pair. The doctor with the small round spectacles and neat black moustache avoided his eyes, while the handsome, dark-haired brother straightened his posture.

“I was told you have been…seeing that she is taken care of,” the brother explained hesitantly. Richard had been shocked when the man had introduced himself, though his demeanor since then had confirmed the manager’s suspicion that the animosity between siblings went both ways. “We wished to consult you before we made any final decisions as to her care.”

“As I am sure you know, Monsieur, she is in no state to tend to her own needs,” the doctor piped in nervously.

“Thank heavens she has such a loving family to do it for her,” Richard muttered. The plan was quite simple and the hospital the men had chosen sounded as appropriate as any madhouse could be.

“If you can propose a better solution, sir, I shall be happy to hear it,” the brother demanded impatiently. “We have come as a courtesy to you in gratitude for your help up to this point, but you have no real right to decide what happens to her.”

“No more than she does,” Richard spat back and took another burning drink of brandy. The brother glowered at him and the doctor took a timid step backward.

“We will give you a week to decide,” the doctor blurted out and met incredulous looks from the other men. “Perhaps her condition will improve in that time.”

“Fine, bother me in a week,” Richard ordered and turned away to signal the meeting was adjourned.

Richard did not breathe until he heard the distant click of his front door and the bored sigh of his butler. Each and every person who had seen her thought Carlotta was mad. It was a very easy assumption to make, what with her screams about vengeful ghosts and mysterious women. No one had really listened to what she said. No one had heard the true fear in her voice, or the despair at losing the one thing in the world she had ever wanted. Someone had taken everything from her, left her broken and terrified, fearing for her very life. Why wouldn’t she scream?

Richard emptied the final drops from the decanter into his glass. There was no question in his mind that this “madness” was more than that. Whoever was terrorizing his opera, aiding Christine Daaé and pretending to be a ghost had done this to her. Richard took a long sip of liquor, setting his jaw in resolve. The cure for such madness was simple: find the phantom that had caused it and bring him into the light.

 

Christine let herself enjoy the applause of the company as she finished the aria. She remembered the first time she had sung Mozart on the same stage, to an empty, dark theater, praying angels would hear her. She smiled to herself, feeling the eyes of the angel that had found her, watching. She was mildly surprised to catch sight of the managers watching from the wings, Moncharmin applauding and Richard looking as sour and unimpressed as ever.

“Five minutes and then the ballet,” Bosarge ordered. Christine walked confidently to the managers, ignoring the curious looks that followed her.

“I think a new production of _Don Giovanni_ may be in order,” Moncharmin suggested awkwardly as Christine reached them.

“I was actually going to say I am reconsidering your earlier suggestion, Monsieur,” Christine shot back, her voice cold as she remembered Adele’s bruised face. “The Queen of the Night’s revenge aria may indeed be more appropriate for the occasion.”

Moncharmin’s face fell and he looked nervously between Christine and Richard, who seemed willfully oblivious to her presence.

“I am certain there is no need for a change so close to the performance,” Moncharmin ventured, his voice shaking. “There must be some other accommodation we can make for you…”

“Do you know Antoine De Martin?” Christine asked curtly.

“He is one of our patrons, of course,” Richard grumbled suspiciously.

“He _was_ ,” Christine corrected icily. “He is no longer welcome in the Opera.”

“Mademoiselle, surely there is something else…” Moncharmin blubbered.

“You do not have the authority to dictate who is welcome as a patron,” Richard growled, his face growing red with anger.

“What use will your patrons be if you have no singers?” Christine snapped back.

“Or dancers.”

The three of them turned to regard Sorelli. Christine suppressed a satisfied smile as the dancer came to stand beside her, her light brown eyes calm and resolved.

“What in the world has Monsieur De Martin done to offend you?” Moncharmin attempted and Richard gave a defeated scoff and stormed off, apparently leaving the matter to his younger counterpart. Sorelli gave Christine a meaningful glance.

“He nearly killed one of your employees, Adele DuVal, if you care,” Christine answered stonily and Moncharmin swallowed, unable to argue. “On that same note, Mademoiselle DuVal shall be given full pay for any missed performances and will not be refused when she is well enough to return to the chorus.”

“Of course, Mademoiselle, it will all be seen to,” the manager assured her with a small bow then rushed off.

“That was brave of you,” Sorelli commented as they watched Moncharmin disappear into the backstage gloom. “And kind.”

“He deserves far worse,” Christine muttered, her stomach turning at the very thought of Antoine’s cruel eyes.

“I meant for Adele,” Sorelli corrected. “What you did for her.”

Christine gave the dancer a crooked smile in acknowledgement. The ballet master gave a loud cough and the petit rats rushed to the stage, Sorelli following regally after them. Christine caught Meg’s attention and gave her a nod. Her young friend gave a grudgingly smile as she took her place at the top of her row.

Christine tried to smile back as the music began – Massenet today – and the stage became a whirl of tulle skirts, lithe limbs and graceful turns and bends. Christine had loved to dance, before her father had died. He would play folk tunes for her on the violin and she would twirl and fly and spin as the music carried her away. It had been Raoul that had first tried to teach her how to dance with a partner. He had been a terrible instructor but by the time they were sixteen they had been able to make a circuit of the parlor floor without tripping or stepping on each other’s feet. Her father had caught them one day, when the dance had become a kiss. Two days later the De Chagny family had left the seaside town for the last time.

Christine turned away from the spectacle, the memory of Raoul stabbing through years of trying to forget him. She had never tried harder to forget him than in the past few days, and it had never felt more impossible. She forced herself to remember that he had stood by while Antoine had defiled and beaten her friend and reminded herself that he was not coming back for her. Even if Antoine told him she had been seen with a man in a mask, it was just another story to add to what he already should know – that she belonged to the ghost. Christine leaned against a great wall of ropes and hooks, closing her eyes and letting the one thought could always drive back the regretful memories of Raoul overcome her.

She made herself remember Erik: the sound of his voice in her ear the night before, the look of concern and adoration in his eyes in the morning. The thought of him made her ache from her very bones, stealing her breath away. The yearning was strong enough to drive back whatever it was inside that hurt so much in the light, something empty and full of memories at the same time.

 _Everything and nothing_ , a forgotten voice whispered. She didn’t even realize when she began to move away from the stage, finding the path to her dressing room without thinking. Her heart was beating fast by the time she stepped into the unlit chamber.

“I didn’t think you’d been excused,” his voice whispered in her ear.

“I wasn’t, but they don’t need me any more,” she answered, feeling the air move around her as the mirror slid back and let in the scent of the labyrinth below. The only light came from the crack under the door and his glowing eyes.

“Won’t everyone else be…” he wasn’t able to finish the question before she found him in the dark and pulled him into a starving kiss.

“I don’t care what they want or think,” she whispered determinedly as he drew back, his eyes glittering the darkness an inch from hers. Even in the gloom she could read the wonder and desire in his gaze. “And if they complain or tell me I have to be at that damn party tomorrow, they can go to hell,” Christine continued breathlessly.

All she wanted was to be on the stage singing for him, or lost in his arms or his eyes. Anything place else and she could barely breathe.

“Come home then,” Erik offered temptingly over the quiet sound of the mirror sliding closed behind them. The feel of his cold hands caressing her face and neck was like the first sip of wine on an empty stomach. His mouth found hers as he pulled her flush against him and she felt him stir though layers of clothes.

“I don’t think you can wait that long,” she teased, the darkness and her desire making her reckless. He gave a shuddering gasp as her hand slid between them in the blackness. He answered her touch in kind, quickly pulling her skirts up to her hips and delving with curious, long fingers between her thighs. “Nor can I.”

 

“You look like you’re at a funeral, did you know that?” Philippe chided, blowing a perturbed puff of cigar smoke in Raoul’s face.

“You’re the one who insisted I come out,” Raoul muttered, sniffing the expensive brandy he had been given but not taking a sip. “I made no guarantee I would be in a good mood.”

“Which is exactly why I had to bring you out with me tonight,” Philippe argued good-naturedly. “You haven’t been in a good mood for a week.”

“I thought you brought me out so that I wouldn’t sneak off to the performance,” Raoul shot back. He glanced to the large grandfather clock in by the door of the smoking room. Christine would have already finished her first aria by now.

“Neither of us are welcome at the Opera tonight, little brother,” Philippe muttered, the veneer of joviality falling away.

“Well that makes three of us,” a cold, self-satisfied voice commented. Raoul’s fist clenched instinctively as Antoine de Martin strode towards them, taking an empty seat by the crackling fire. Raoul’s estimation of the standards of the club fell markedly. “Of course, the De Changy brothers, jilted by the prima donna and prima ballerina respectively, is a much better tale than a simple patron turned away at the door of the theater.”

“You were turned away?” Philippe echoed incredulously.

“God knows why,” Antoine confirmed with a nod, accepting a snifter of brandy from a white-coated attendant.

“I am sure you have a few guesses,” Raoul grumbled, the look of fear in that girl’s eyes still burning in his mind.

Antoine scowled. “I was also informed that I will not be welcome at the Opera ever again, and that my subscription and patronage have been canceled.”

Raoul raised an eyebrow. It seemed Christine had discovered her friend’s fate. “And don’t you even want to ask what I learned, apparently at such high cost?” Antoine demanded acerbically, giving Raoul small kick.

“I’d rather forget,” Raoul lied. He had been trying to forget for a week and had not had any success. Philippe grimaced as he rose from his plush leather chair.

“I need a fresh drink,” his brother declared unhappily, clearly as uninterested in Antoine’s tale as Raoul was trying to pretend to be. Antoine leaned forward and Raoul tried to burrow deeper into his seat and avoid the icy blue stare.

“She saw your little diva with a flesh and blood man, but…” Raoul looked at Antoine, who sneered, enjoying the younger man’s suspense. “He was wearing a mask.”

Raoul winced as if he had been struck. He had guessed all along, but it had been too strange and fantastic to believe. Christine had spurned him for a ghost, a ghost who had promoted her career and taught her to sing, with a voice like an angel, a ghost who was nothing more than a man in a mask.

“This makes no sense,” Raoul stated aloud, forgetting his displeasure with Antoine. “If she’s been with this phantom all along, who in God’s name is he? Why would he hide behind all these foolish legends just to…to help her career?”

“Maybe you can ask him yourself,” Antoine suggested lazily, as he selected a cigar from a polished humidor presented by an attendant. Raoul regarded him curiously. “You see, I have another tale for you, my friend. Do you ever spend time in the Bois?” Raoul shook his head slowly, not quite understanding. “I think you should. Because Christine Daaé certainly does.”

“What?” Raoul exclaimed quietly. The fact that Christine had been seen outside the Opera was the best news he had heard in a week.

“I saw her myself, leaning out of a brougham window and taking in the fresh night air,” Antoine explained almost gleefully. “And she wasn’t alone. Before you ask, I didn’t see him. He kept to the shadows, but there was certainly someone with her.”

“Did you follow them?” Raoul’s mind was racing. He could find out where she went, find out whom the man was that had adopted such a ghoulish persona to win a woman. Was that why Christine had seemed so frightened when he had spoken to her about him? The stories said the ghost was terrifying and cruel. If she was with this man out of fear…

“No,” Antoine answered, jolting Raoul from his rampant thoughts. Raoul’s heart fell but Antoine gave him a grim smile as he lit his cigar. “But don’t lose heart. If they went there once, perhaps they will go again. And I can show you just where to watch from.”

Raoul looked over his shoulder to where Philippe was watching him disapprovingly from across the room. He suddenly felt like he was in one of Christine’s operas. He could be with the fair maiden, but it required a deal with the devil.


	13. Unspoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night in the Bois goes wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for deoictions of violence, bad, head space for Erik and Christine and what could be constrused as dubcon.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Meg’s mother commented as they entered their simple flat. Meg gave a sigh. At least someone noticed.

“I’m fine,” Meg lied. 

“At least you’re home before midnight,” Estelle Giry smiled, removing her faded bonnet and taking Meg’s shawl. “You know I don’t like you lingering at those parties.”

“There was no reason to go tonight,” Meg muttered. “Christine apparently told Monsieur Richard he could wear the gown and go if he so wanted a star there.” Meg herself had not seen the outburst, only heard the story from five different dancers, three of which said they had it from Robert Rameau, another who said Richard had told her and the last who had said she’d seen it herself before the ghost swept behind Christine and made her disappear in a puff of smoke.

“Your friend? Why should it matter if she wasn’t there?” her mother asked encouragingly. 

Meg dropped into the threadbare chair by the smoky stove as her mother added a few coals. “It doesn’t,” Meg agreed. “He didn’t even come to the performance, he wouldn’t have come to the party even if she’d been there.” 

“That young man of yours?” 

“Not mine,” Meg countered hopelessly. Before Christine’s latest scandal had eclipsed everything, the absence of Philippe De Chagny and his brother from their box had been the talk of the corps de ballet. Meg wondered if Christine had even heard the news amid all the applause and praise for her performance. 

“You’ll see him again, my darling, don’t worry,” the elder Giry consoled her, sitting on the edge of the chair and stroking Meg’s long, golden hair. 

“He won’t see me,” Meg whispered. She wished some days that her mother was not so optimistic or trusting in the good nature of people. It would make it easier to explain that someone like Raoul would never give her a second look.

“He will, and when he does, you should tell him how you feel.” 

Meg leaned into her mother’s arms. She did not want to say aloud how foolish that would be, or impossible. She would never be able to find the right words or the right reason he should listen. 

“Remember, Christine Daaé is not the only one the ghost has favored. He had you promoted; don’t you remember? If he saw your potential, this young man certainly will.”

“The ghost brought down the old managers and Carlotta for Christine, they say,” Meg argued, not consoled one bit. “The ghost makes her disappear.”

“Don’t speak ill of him, my dear,” her mother warned. 

Meg frowned but did not protest. Her mother had great faith in the ghost. It would upset her for Meg to say that he would not listen to her either.

 

Erik wound his fingers through Christine’s hair, loving how every part of her was warm. He had spent so many months dreaming of her, and so many years before that longing for someone to end his loneliness, but he would have never guessed that moments like these would be almost as sublime as making love to her. He loved the feel of her breath on his skin, loved the weight of her head on his shoulder, her legs twined with his.

“What are you humming?” Christine asked softly.

“Am I humming?” Erik asked back, a bit surprised. 

“Is that what it’s like inside your head? So full of music it just slips out?” The sound of her voice was beautiful, even though there was still sadness behind the words.

“I guess. I’ve never really thought of it that way,” he answered thoughtfully. “What is it like inside your head?”

“Right now?” She made a small, contemplative sound and shifted herself a bit closer to him. “Right now it’s quiet, but a few minutes ago it was a symphony.”

“Not an Opera?” It made his heart lift to feel her smile against his skin.

“But when I’m up there,” she continued wistfully, “it’s just noise.”

“Up there,” Erik echoed, wondering how it felt for her, to live in two worlds. “What do you think about up there? Do you ever wonder about the future, or think about the consequences?” 

She lifted her head. “What do you mean?” she inquired with a crooked, curious smile. “Are you asking if I’m afraid of getting pregnant?” His eyes widened considerably and she gave warm, smoky laugh. “No need to look so horrified. I can’t,” she consoled him with a shrug.

“Can’t?” Erik shifted himself to see her more directly as she gave a sad nod. “How can you know that?”

“When I was eighteen, when we were still living with the doctor, I got very, very sick,” Christine explained flatly. “He pulled me through but he said the illness would make having children impossible.”

“I’m sorry,” Erik murmured. 

Christine cast her eyes away from him, resting her head on her hand. The regret was clear on her face. 

“You would be a good mother.” 

Christine laughed quietly. “Are you relieved?” she asked, her voice still straining to cover up the sadness.

“I don’t think I’d be a very good father, if that’s what you mean,” he answered with more honesty than he would have expected from himself. “A child should not have to live in the dark, and that is where I belong.”

“You’d never leave?” she inquired in surprise, at last looking back up at him. “Even if I asked?”

“Why would you ever ask?” Indeed, he could imagine no reason why she would want to bring him into the living world. He knew she preferred him as a secret and a ghost. She did not seem to be able to find a good reason either, though she appeared to be trying. Erik shrugged. “I think I’ve known since I came here that I would die here.”

“Don’t talk like that,” she reprimanded him instantly. 

He blinked in bewilderment. “Like what?” 

“About you dying,” she clarified, pulling her body closer to him and nestling her head back against his chest. “I don’t want to think about that.” 

Erik carefully stroked her arm, shocked and touched at the same time. 

“Let’s talk about something more cheerful. You know, you didn’t even say if you enjoyed the performance,” Christine prompted, her voice much brighter and impetuous.

“I thought I made my approval quite clear,” he teased back. He had been ravenous for her after the final curtain, captivated by the voice that belonged to him, and had barely been able to wait to take her. “I did think it was your best yet, especially the encore.” 

Christine laughed bashfully and he felt her cheek grow warmer against his chest. His only regret was that he had not been able to laugh aloud as she had told off Richard and slammed her dressing room door in his face. He was glad Christine’s dresser had been there to do it for him. He was sure the story was already legend.

“And nothing terrible happened afterward,” Christine ventured. 

Erik considered the statement. Looking back it did seem like each time Christine had stepped in front of the audience some disaster or heartbreak had followed.

“Well, I guess there’s still time if you’re disappointed.” He loved the gentle sound of her laughter. 

“Perhaps we should stay here for a while, just to be safe,” she suggested playfully, lifting her head to look at him again. He smiled back at her, captivated by the light in her eyes and realizing that it had been too long since he had seen it. 

“Just to be safe,” he echoed. 

Her hands moved across his scarred skin as she shifted her body, placing her legs on each side of him and trapping him beneath her. Her hair fell around his face like a curtain, blotting out the candlelight as she kissed him. She kissed his face, her miraculous lips caressing each scar and deformity, sweeping everything else away. 

 

Shaya took a long sip of cold tea, not looking up from the pile of papers before him. Darius sighed from the door.

“I brought some fresh.” 

Shaya looked up gratefully as his servant filled his cup from the chipped teapot he was carrying. All-in-all Darius had been incredibly tolerant of him for the last week. He had made sure Shaya slept and kept him fed and well supplied with strong tea as he had spent the nights pouring over years of notes and clippings. He had even kept the fires burning until Shaya had come home hours after midnight, having spent the evening in the offices of Epoque reviewing old issues. 

“Any progress?” Darius asked kindly as Shaya sipped the warm tea.

“I think I may actually be going backwards,” Shaya sighed, shaking his head and setting down the cup and saucer. Just looking at the long lists of names and dates and crimes at the top of his pile made his head feel like it was filled with lead. 

“You have decided against speaking to the families of the men killed in the fire then?” Darius ventured. 

Shaya pulled out another paper, nodding and giving another heavy sigh as he did so. “What would I tell them? I need help to track down the man who killed your brother or son, but we cannot go after the villain directly, lest he kill us as well, nor can we go to the police, since they will never believe me,” Shaya recited, running a hand through his hair. 

The list of noble names and their next of kin was three years old. It had been one of the first things he had compiled when he had discovered the stories about the tragic fire and the deformed street performer hired to entertain who had caused it.

“It is a shame that the Vicomte has lost interest in the girl,” Darius lamented. 

Shaya massaged the bridge of his nose, his head aching at the very thought of Raoul, Vicomte De Chagny. “It is a shame I spent so much time learning about him just to discover he’s given up,” Shaya agreed, shuffling through is papers to find the meticulously detailed dossier he had compiled on the entire De Chagny family. “A man in love would have been the perfect ally.”

“From what you’ve told me you suspect about the girl, it wasn’t likely he would have stayed in love much longer anyway,” Darius consoled, looking over Shaya’s shoulders at the papers. Darius cocked his head as he read. “That’s interesting, isn’t it?”

“What is?” 

Darius pointed to one of the first names on the list of the Vicomte’s family and then indicated the list of the dead from the fire. 

Shaya blinked. Perhaps all the mess had needed was a fresh pair of eyes to find the connections. A smile began to creep across his lips.

 

Christine stared into the fire, watching as the flames bent and danced and transformed. Sitting before the hearth, lost in the sound of a violin, she felt like she was a child again. She could almost hear the sound of the ocean outside. They were beside water, weren’t they? She had used to love the way she could taste the ocean on her lips for hours after leaving the seashore. The same way she could still taste him.

“Where are you?” Erik asked softly, coming to sit beside her. How long had it been since he had stopped playing?

“By the sea,” she answered, looking away from the fire and into his eyes. The sea was there as well. 

Erik regarded her thoughtfully, pushing back her loose hair from her face. She was getting better at reading the expression in his deathly countenance. Today it was concern.

“Are you still sad for your friend?” he inquired hesitantly. 

Christine briefly considered saying she was not sad, but she had committed not to lie to him any more. 

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. The sadness she felt was in part due to Adele, but it went back further than that, even beyond Buquet and Erik’s shattered mirror and life. 

“Are you thinking about that boy?” 

Christine was shocked Erik had asked it aloud. She had not even been sure that he had noticed that Raoul had not come to the last performance or tried to reach her at all since the day after Buquet’s death. Erik noticed everything though.

“I don’t mean to,” Christine confessed. 

Erik’s expression was regretful as he shifted himself to face her more directly. “I wish I knew more ways to make you smile,” he stated simply. Christine tilted her head curiously, surprised by the genuine sentiment in the words. “When you smile, it is the most beautiful thing in the world, to me. I miss seeing it.” The smile he had asked for came at just the words, hesitant and surprised, but a real smile. “There it is.”

“You do make me smile,” she reassured him, his closeness dispelling the coldness inside her in a way the fire had not been able to. 

“I said I wanted to know more ways to do it,” he corrected. “Perhaps you would like to go out again? I can show you the tunnels that go under the river, to Notre Dame, or we could go back to the Louvre…”

“Take me back to the Bois,” Christine suggested accommodatingly, moved by his earnest offer. “Maybe we can see the last of the snow before it’s spring.” 

“Do you mind waiting until after dark?” Erik seemed tentatively pleased at her request. “And this time we will need to alert Rabindra that he’s needed.” 

“I don’t mind at all.” Erik’s smile made her want to keep smiling, if only for him. “Until then, will you tell me that story, or read it to me, the Indian one about the prince and the demon who steals the princess?”

“Of course,” he agreed quickly. “It’s quite long, you’ll owe me at least five of yours afterwards.”

“I hope it’s worth the price,” she replied with a mischievous grin. Erik rose unexpectedly. “Where are you going?”

“I have a copy from India in the study,” Erik explained. “It has beautiful hand-painted illustrations, I thought you would like to see it.” 

“Of course.” Christine felt the smile of her face falter as he turned away and gracefully made his way to the door of his study. It was oddly hard to breathe. “Erik…” 

He turned back to her as she said his name, her voice tentative and uncertain. 

“Yes?”

“I…” Christine stopped, the words and the thought behind them evaporating before they could pass her lips. “I forgot what I was going to say,” she muttered shyly. 

He gave her a quizzical look before resuming his journey into the study. Christine took a deep, difficult breath, as she looked back to the fire, something in her aching with a strange, distant emptiness. 

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” she whispered to the flames.

 

Raoul took another swig of liquor from the flask Antoine had offered him and felt it burn all the way down his throat, a welcome contrast to the cool night air. The dull, dizzying effect of the alcohol was also a welcome balm to Antoine’s presence. 

“So the sailor can drink,” Antoine smirked. “I was beginning to worry.” 

Raoul scowled, an expression that had been etched on his face the moment he had met Antoine at the edge of the city. Being in the older man’s company without the softening influence of Philippe or others did remind Raoul strongly of his time as a cadet, right down to the taste of brandy and the faint scent of a whore’s cheap perfume on Antoine’s clothes. 

Raoul stood up unsteadily, hoping that moving would clear his head and make the world stop rocking like a ship in a storm. He stepped carefully down towards the empty Longchamps racetrack, steadying himself on the rail set between the lines of seats.

“Well, I did tell you it would be a bit of a long shot,” Antoine drawled from above him, apparently taking Raoul’s movement as a sign of surrender. “You’ll have to come back some other time on your own.”

“I’m not leaving yet,” Raoul reassured the older man determinedly. The sound of Antoine’s cold laughter behind him made Raoul cringe.

“You’re actually in love with the little songbird, aren’t you?” Raoul turned quickly to face Antoine, who was making his own precarious way down from the seats they had occupied. “How miserable.”

“If you think I’m such a fool, why are you helping me?” Raoul demanded, his embarrassment flaring.

“The little bitch and her damn ghost had my patronage revoked and have shut me out of the Opera,” Antoine sneered back. “That’s not the sort of thing I can forgive and forget. As you well know, the ladies of the Opera are of a far superior vintage than the ones you’ll find wandering around a place like this, even if they are all the same when it come down to it.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Raoul ordered a bit too late and Antoine laughed again.

“Raoul, you can’t possibly be defending the girl’s _honor_ , not when we’re out in here in the middle of the bloody night to try to catch her with another lover.” 

Raoul stalked down towards the track, fighting back the honest sting of the words. 

“We don’t know they are lovers,” he protested thickly as he reached the gate, grasping the cold iron to steady himself. Antoine gave a small huff as he came to stand beside Raoul.

“You’re as naïve as a schoolgirl if you really believe that,” Antoine chided.

“This man goes about in a mask, pretending to be a ghost,” Raoul pushed back. “He may even have killed a man. If Christine is with him it is surely as a captive or out of fear.”

“Adele saw them together, outside of Christine’s room,” Antoine argued luridly, taking clear delight in the details. 

Raoul glared at him. He would not believe any such slander until he had the truth from Christine or this damn ‘phantom.’ Antoine gave another dry laugh and handed Raoul the flask. Raoul continued to glower at the taller man as he took a long sip. He was glad of the wave of relaxation and detachment the brandy brought with it. 

“Christine is special,” Raoul stated rather unclearly, attempting to hand the flask back to Antoine.

“Keep it, I brought another,” Antoine smirked. “And I think you need that far more than I do.”

 

Erik stayed a few steps behind Christine as they made their way through the trees, many of the exotic species not native to the French soil. The snow Christine had hoped for clung to the hard earth in patches, hidden among roots and marking the places the sun had not touched. The night was clear and cold, a beautiful waxing crescent moon lingering in the sky. 

He watched Christine crane her neck as she looked up at the stars, breathing in the clean scent of earth and wood. She was smiling and utterly beautiful. He almost wished he was brave enough to take off the mask and enjoy the night air on his face as well. 

“What?” she asked curiously, catching him staring.

“Your face in the moonlight, it reminds me of the first night I found you in the Opera,” he confessed.

“You know I never asked why you were there that night,” Christine mused, as she turned fully towards him, the dark cloak that had once been his swirling around her. 

“I was planning on scaring you.” She raised an eyebrow as he came within half a foot of her. “I helped you before that, and it made me feel human. I wanted revenge for that.”

“But you didn’t take it,” she finished for him. 

He shook his head slowly. “That was the first time I heard you talk to a ghost,” he murmured, taking her hand. They had both forgotten to wear gloves, and her skin was cold. “You were such a poet.”

“And hearing me made you not want to hurt me,” she continued, looking down as Erik toyed with the gold ring on her right hand. It looked almost silver in the moonlight.

“I think it made me start to fall in love with you,” he whispered. “I didn’t know it then though,” he added thoughtfully. 

Christine surprised him with a smile, the secret smile he loved above all others. 

“Christine, are you happy?” The tenderness in her eyes when she looked up at him was heart stopping.

 

“I think I am,” Christine replied slowly, lost in his gaze. In the shadow cast by the brim of his hat, his eyes were the very same blue as the night sky above them. “I feel as if I shouldn’t be, that it’s wrong to be happy when there is so much pain all around me, but right now I am.” 

She always wondered if she said too much to Erik. She worried about giving him hope or hurting him without meaning to, but lying or keeping the words inside seemed so cruel. She wished she knew what it was about the moment that made her happy, or why there was still a dull ache inside her despite it.

“I’m pleased,” Erik smiled. It warmed her, the same way his hands warmed hers. 

“I guess you just need to take me out and about more often,” Christine suggested, envisioning the absurd image of walking beside Erik in the daylight and wishing it was possible.

“Perhaps I do,” Erik agreed. “The masquerade is in a few days…” 

Christine found herself smiling broadly. “Are you asking me to accompany you, Monsieur?” 

He laughed, a beautiful, bubbling sound from deep in his throat. He stepped back and made a graceful bow, not letting go of her hand.

“Would you do me the honor of attending with me, Mademoiselle?” Christine laughed and bowed back.

“Only on one condition,” she parried back mischievously. 

“I expected no less,” Erik muttered without malice.

“You must promise to dance with me.” 

His eyes widened in surprise behind the mask. “Dance?” he echoed incredulously.

“Surely you have heard of dancing?” Christine teased, making an insincere attempt to slide out of his grip. “Or are such displays beneath the dignity of the infamous Opera Ghost.”

“I don’t dance,” Erik stated, both firm and seductive in his tone, as he pulled her back to him.

“Yes you do,” Christine countered defiantly. “No one could move the way you do and not be able to dance.” She pressed close to him, feeling bold in the empty night. “No one could make such beautiful music and not move to it.”

“How can I argue with such flattery?” he acquiesced and Christine grinned. “I promise to dance with you, but you must promise to teach me.”

“Then I accept your invitation,” she almost laughed. “To think there could be anything I could teach you. I’m honored.” She kept smiling as she found his hand and moved it to her waist, taking the other and extending her arm. 

Erik cocked his head, his eyes more amused than worried. “There’s no music,” he reminded her suspiciously. 

She stood on her toes, pressing her cheek against the mask. “When you are with me, there is always music,” Christine whispered in his ear. “Now, dance with me, my angel.” 

He smiled wistfully at her as she set her hand on his shoulder and quietly began to sing. It was a simple folk melody her father had played for her since she was young. Before she had known how to speak she had been able to hum it. Erik was surprisingly tentative as she began to move, but he quickly caught the rhythm and the melody. They moved in smooth circles as they sang together, graceful and trusting. It was a dance as she had never shared before in her life, and it seemed somehow miraculous. 

Christine was glad she was singing, that she could speak to him with music, instead of useless words. There was no need to think or worry, right now, as she stared up into his eyes, dancing together for the first time. All that mattered was that, somehow, looking at him made her happy. The emptiness that had followed her before was so completely gone it was hard to believe she had ever felt it. Instead she was full to overflowing with something she could find no words for, only a song. 

She was dimly aware that they had stopped moving and that now he was simply holding her close in the shining night, as their voices grew quieter, then faded to silence. She held her breath, almost praying he would kiss her. She wanted him to embrace her, set her on fire and sweep every thought away with his touch. 

He leaned closer to her and she tilted her face to his. He would kiss her and she could forget this and the words that were fighting their way past every defense she could mount. He was so close and his eyes were so beautiful.

“Erik, I…”

“Christine!” 

The cry shattered the night like a gunshot. Christine spun in horror, as Erik’s hand locked on her wrist like a vice. Raoul stumbled towards them from the edge of the clearing, his eyes unfocused and disbelieving. The sound of another intruder clamoring after Raoul through the trees was too much for Christine to understand, or for Erik judging by the waves of anger and danger cascading off him. 

“Run.” 

Christine did not think about the order, only obeyed it. She sped through the trees, vaguely in the direction of their carriage, not even knowing if Erik was behind her. Tears were stinging her eyes already as she rushed headlong into the woods.

 

Raoul crashed through the man-made forest, pushing clumsily through bushes and breaking low-hanging branches. His head was reeling for the liquor. 

What in God’s name had he seen? What had he heard? It had been like something out of a fairy tale: two perfect voices. Antoine had laughed when Raoul had told him to shut up. Christ, where had Antoine gone? A branch clawed at his coat, delaying him and he heard someone stumble ahead of him and give a cry. A woman’s voice…no, Christine’s voice. He had known it was her singing, just like he had known it was the fiend who had joined her. 

He had run as fast as he could, as fast as he was lumbering as now, determined to catch them. He had nearly screamed when the voices had stopped, but then he had found them. He had to reach her. The man, the man in the mask, had been leaning in to kiss her…

“Christine! Wait!” he yelled stupidly as he chased her. He caught sight of her ahead of him, her dark cloak flowing behind her as she ran. Where had the other gone, the ghost? No, it was not a ghost. “Christine!” he cried desperately and at last she stopped and spun to face him. 

Her face was absolutely desolate, as if her heart was breaking. He could not tell if he had stopped moving, the world was still rushing sickeningly around him. Was it heartbreak on her face or was it horror? Why was she so pale? She seemed to be screaming, but he couldn’t make out the words.

“No!” 

He understood the word the moment he felt the hand, cold as death, lock on his throat. All he saw was the fear in her eyes before the world faded to nothing.

 

“God, no! Please don’t hurt him!” Christine entreated as Erik held up the interfering, idiotic young hero. He turned to her with a look that must have still shone with loathing, and she fell back a step, horrified. “Please.” 

With an effort that nearly made him sick Erik released the fop’s tender neck and let his limp body drop gracelessly to the ground. Christine gave a cry of shock.

“He’s just unconscious,” Erik spat. He sniffed the air in disgust as Christine bent down to the boy. “He’s drunk. He probably had no idea what he saw,” he explained tensely, looking down at the Vicomte and hating him and the look of concern and fear in Christine’s face with every ounce of his being. “We need to leave _now_.”

“Yes you do.” 

Christine sprang up and Erik spun to face the second man. Erik recognized him vaguely: another patron, tall, with blond hair that was untidy from running through the woods. He was laughing darkly, though his eyes were bleary and unfocused. Erik clenched his fists as he sensed Christine shaking beside him. The man staggered towards them, sneering.

“Would you like me to spare this fool as well?” Erik demanded, acid in his voice. 

Christine’s face grew grim as she slowly shook her head. “No, him I want you to hurt.” Her voice was like frozen fire. 

Erik barely had time to enjoy the sudden look of terror on the man’s face before he was upon him. He struck him roughly across the jaw and the echoing pain in his own hand was like the first thrill of a kiss. The man stumbled back then tried to strike out. It was like watching someone moving in water, the attempt was so slow. Erik kicked him hard in the chest and landed another punch before the man even could focus on where his attacker had moved. 

The idiot made another lunge and Erik let him land a blow, just to give him enough hope to try again. The patron gave a sick grunt as Erik struck once, twice, three times more, savoring the feel of bone cracking beneath his fist. He moved fast and smooth with the practiced violence of a master. The fool was bleeding now, from a split lip and his nose, but he kept coming. Erik spun below a clumsy punch, kicking his adversary’s legs out from beneath him. The man fell to the ground in an ungainly heap, gasping and swearing. 

Erik lunged forward and was choking him in an instant. The feeling of power and vengeance as the nobleman clawed uselessly at his hand while Erik struck his face again and again was thrilling and intoxicating.

“No!” Erik ignored Christine’s cry, watching as the man’s ice blue eyes rolled back in his head. He remembered this feeling: the giddy, horrific sensation of a pulse slowing beneath his grasp. “Stop!”

Erik let go unwillingly as Christine tore him backward away from his prey. Her eyes and the revulsion that filled them were like a slap. He was suddenly dizzy and breathless.

He looked down at the two bodies. No they were still men; still living, breathing men. The second was a bruised, bloody mess. The pain radiating slowly up from his hand and the sticky, warm sensation of blood on his skin made Erik feel sick. Almost as sick as it made him feel to look at the boy and think of what he hadn’t done and still wanted to do. He could imagine so clearly and wonderfully the life draining from that perfect face…

Erik turned quickly, fighting hard to push away the need to do more harm. He grabbed Christine’s wrist and began to pull her after him. 

The reached the brougham quickly. He avoided Rabindra’s eyes as they climbed into their seats. It was harder to delay looking at Christine as the carriage began to move. She gave a small whimper and Erik realized he had not let go of her. 

He dropped her wrist as if it burned him, shocked by how tightly he had been holding her. His hands were shaking as he looked down at them. His whole body was shaking. Was Christine looking at his hands as well, perhaps trying to discern whose blood it was that clung to the sickly pale skin, almost black in the moonlight? He did not even remember the man’s name.

“What will happen to them?” Christine asked timorously from beside him, and Erik winced. 

“Someone will find them. It we are lucky they will be robbed before they’re rescued,” Erik answered flatly. 

A quarter of an hour before, he had been happy. She had smiled and danced with him and they had been happy. Then the boy had destroyed everything again and yet he was still alive and another man’s life had barely been saved. 

Christine took another shaking breath beside him. “What if…”

“Stop,” he ordered through clenched teeth. He could not bear another word of concern or fear from her. Not now. 

He did not speak another word or look at her as the brougham rattled back to the Opera. Again and again the flight and fight repeated in his mind. Only, in his fantasy, she was not there to watch or stop him and the boy was dead at his hands by the end. He barely waited for the carriage to stop before springing out. 

He still couldn’t look at her as they strode through the stables and began to descend. He considered not even bothering with the lantern. He could find the way in the dark. She couldn’t though. The same thoughts rushed through his mind again and again as they moved swiftly through the blackness: Christine had saved the boy; a stranger’s blood was on his hands; and beyond that something else, some terrible and sickening and disastrous. 

Erik fell to his knees as they reached the edge of the lake, casting aside the lantern and plunging his hands into the frigid, black water. The cold stung the new bruises and old wounds on his skin, shocking him back to reality. How long had it been this hard to breathe? 

He was panting as he held his hands under the water, washing away the blood and grime and wondering how long he could bear the cold. At last he stood, his hands numb at last. He wished he could do the same to his mind or his monster’s heart.

It was Christine who took up the lantern and followed him to the hidden door. The pain made him wince as he pushed it open. He threw off his hat and cape and let them fall carelessly to the floor as he finally dared to look at Christine. 

She looked horrified and incredibly sad, tears still staining her cheeks. Was it because she was worried for the boy? Had she turned him away before just to save him? The thundering rush of bloody thoughts through his mind threatened again. How could she be so appalled when this was what she had wanted?

“What am I to you?” Erik asked, not even realizing the words were aloud until Christine’s face contorted with confusion and hurt. “Am I your weapon? Just a pet monster you can command?”

“Erik, no…” Christine whispered, taking a step towards him and reaching out. 

Erik stumbled back, shaking his head. “But that’s what you wanted me to be. You wanted me to be a monster and punish that fool, whoever he was,” Erik argued hotly, his head spinning as he remembered thrill of the all-too-brief fight. 

“That man raped Adele.” Something in her voice made him think she was arguing with herself as well. “He beat her and…”

“I don’t care! I don’t care who he is, or why or if he deserved that,” Erik snarled back, his unfulfilled aggression exploding. “I didn’t ask who he was. I did it because you asked me to and because I wanted to hurt someone; and you _knew that_! You know what I am and what I’ve done and you asked me to do it again! Yet you stopped me!”

“I didn’t want you to kill him!” Christine yelled, appalled and clearly alarmed. “I wanted to see him suffer, but I did not want him dead!” 

“And _I_ want that boy to suffer!” Erik screamed back, advancing on her. She stood her ground defiantly, despite the fear in her eyes. “He will come for you now,” he accused. “He will come to save you and there is nothing I can do to stop him!”

“You said he wouldn’t remember,” she countered miserably. “We don’t even know what he saw.”

“He’ll remember, Christine. The fool loves you: he will remember,” Erik growled and Christine shook her head vehemently, everything in her face refusing to believe the disaster that had struck. Erik threw up his hands and spun away, giving a strangled, frustrated cry. 

“Erik, please, just calm down and listen to me…” Christine entreated. He could feel her inching towards him from behind, as tentative as if she was approaching a wild beast.

“I don’t want to be calm!” he snarled, slamming his open hands onto the piano and reeling from the rush of pain. “I don’t want to hear your reasons. I don’t want to hear you tell me why I should not fear him or hate him, when I know he will try to take you from me!”

 

“He won’t succeed though,” Christine protested, fighting back the urge to recoil from the violence of Erik’s jealousy and trying to make the wretched words sound true. “I’m not his to save.” 

Erik turned to her, his eyes on fire with doubt and rage. “Aren’t you though?” Erik demanded unbelievingly. Christine shook her head again, looking down at the gold ring on her hand.

“I made you a promise,” she breathed. “I said I’d wear this as long as I was yours and I have not taken it off.” 

Erik took a slow step towards her, menace and unsatisfied anger radiating from him like sparks from a fire. He took her hand and held it between them, all his focus on the ring. His hands were incredibly cold as he grasped her fingers, twisting them between his and making her wince at the force.

“Tell me that again,” he ordered darkly. Christine took a shaking breath, the fear and horror she had felt since Raoul had called her name quivering under her skin and her heart still beating fast and hard.

“I’m yours,” she whispered weakly. She knew by his eyes it was not enough. 

He pulled her to him and tore off his mask, flinging it to the floor and he pushed his hideous face closer to her. She did not blink or shy away. “Look at me and say it.” 

She wondered if he felt her trembling against him, or if her cared. His hand was still holding hers too tightly for comfort and his eyes were desperate.

“I’m yours,” she repeated, steadier this time. “No one else’s.” His free hand was shaking worse than she was as he raised it to her face. It felt lice ice against her cheek as he touched her and twined his fingers into her hair. “Just yours.”

She started in shock as he claimed her mouth in a powerful, hungry kiss. She responded tentatively to the embrace and the pressure of his lips on hers grew more intense. He tugged at her hair as he continued, sending a wave of sensation down from her skull that made her dizzy. 

She tried to pull back to breathe, but he would not allow it. It sent a surge of dread through her even as his mouth on hers ignited a fire in her blood. She gasped when he finally released her, his mouth moving down her neck with frantic desire. He hastily gathered her skirts at her hip, pushing his hand between her thighs and past her undergarments. The feel of his cold fingers against her sex made her cry out into his mouth as it found hers again.

“Tell me again,” Erik ordered breathlessly, moving his lips to her ear and making her skin come alive with gooseflesh.

“I’m yours,” Christine obeyed, her voice choked with the terrible mix of fear and pain and guilty passion. 

He moved his hand beneath her skirts and she moaned. He knew exactly how to touch her and how to make her long for him more than breath. He caught her, pulling her back into another deep kiss as they sank to the floor, and her fingers knit into his dark hair, pulling hard. 

Christine gave a groan as his hand left her and he began to tear at her garments with furious urgency, his mouth following his cold hands and claiming every inch of her skin as it became exposed. She felt the coarse texture of the carpet beneath her back as Erik pushed her dress off her shoulders with bruising pressure. She heard the sound of tearing as he set at her chemise and underclothes. Faster than she though was possible she was completely bare beneath him. 

He kissed her mouth again, his tongue sliding deep past her lips, as they both clawed at his clothes. She let her nails scratch his arms, slow and deep, as he pulled off his shirt and he moaned.

“Say it again.” His voice was deep and ragged as he gave the command, his distorted face against her breast.

“I’m yours, I’m yours,” she swore as she reached for him, pulling him back to kiss her again, trying to return to the tenderness she knew. 

His hands flew up her arms to her wrists, pinning them back on the floor, disinterested in gentleness as he continued to devour her. She struggled half-heartedly, but the weight of him above her and the insistent force of his mouth on hers were overwhelming. At last he half-released one wrist, while he entwined his fingers with those of her right hand where the ring and promise remained. 

He hand swept over her powerfully, scraping from her shoulder to her hips before pushing her legs apart. She cried out as he found her, the desire for him so acute and sharp that she winced when his fingers delved eagerly into the wetness. 

“I’m yours,” she repeated as she fumbled blindly at the fastening of his trousers.

“Again,” he panted, the hand still holding hers tightening as she found his hardness. 

“I’m yours.” 

They pushed away the last of his clothes and Christine could feel him shaking above her. He breathed heavily as he waited, torturing her with his hesitancy. He moved his hand slowly, making her wail with desire. Her eyes closed as her head fell back in frustrated ecstasy. 

“Say my name,” he rasped, almost begging.

“Erik.” 

He plunged into her and they both cried out as she wantonly arched her body closer to his. She wrapped her legs tight around him as he thrust deep within her, kissing her with violent passion over her mouth and neck and chest. The pressure of his hand was crushing. He grunted in pain as she dug her nails deep into the scarred skin of his back in response. He continued to push inside her, sending waves of unspeakable pleasure through her body. He found his shoulder blindly with her mouth, and bit down hard to stifle her cries.

“Again.” His voice was rough and despairing, his breath hot against her skin. “ _Tell me_.”

“Erik…” she moaned. “Erik, I’m yours. God, I’m yours.” She gripped him fiercely as he continued to drive into her, harder and more desperate than ever before. 

She screamed, the pleasure and anger and fear and pain tossing her like a leaf in a storm. Her body sang beneath him, calling out as she reached her crushing, searing peak. 

_Yes, hurt me, take me, use me, need me. Pour all your pain and hate into me,_. 

“Erik!” 

His final cry of release was like a sob and he fell back from her, withdrawing so quickly it made her whimper. She finally dared to open her eyes, realizing far too late that tears were trickling down her cheeks. Her whole body ached and she felt as if moving would be impossible. She could hear Erik’s breathing beside her and tell he was weeping as well.

“Oh God, Christine…What did I…” The rage in his voice was absolutely gone. 

She turned slightly to look at him as he moved back closer to her, his whole body trembling in revulsion at the injury he surely thought he had done. He reached for her, but did not touch her and his eyes lingered miserably on the red marks on her wrist. 

“Do you believe me now?” There was no blame in the words, just forlorn exhaustion.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” he asked, horror coloring his shaking voice. She was glad to see the anger in his face and eyes replaced by concern and remorse.

“Because I did not want to,” she answered honestly. 

The cool air of the underground house washed over her bare skin, mingling with her sweat to make her shiver in the sudden cold of separateness. 

“I hurt you,” Erik stated despondently, final daring to touch her, his fingers delicately caressing her wrist. 

“No more than I wanted you to,” she confessed, still confused herself by the pain that had not been pain. “It was what you needed.” 

He closed his eyes on new tears, shaking his head sickly. He curled himself beside her, his body quaking and his head resting between her breasts. His ear was against her heart and his face hidden. 

“Erik, tell me what you need from me now.”

“I want him to disappear,” he begged quietly, his voice small and lost. “I hate him. Make him disappear, Christine, please just make him disappear for me.”

“I will,” she answered mournfully, carefully stroking his hair. “Tell me how, and I will.” 

He took a long, quavering breath and tightened his hold on her. “Break his heart,” Erik whispered, absent the malice or vengeance she would have expected. “Don’t leave him hope this time.”

“I won’t,” Christine reassured him, the promise twisting like a knife inside her. “There is no hope to give him.” 

He pulled closer to her, his tears falling warm against her skin as they lay among their scattered clothes on the floor. His thin, scared body seemed so incredibly fragile beneath her hands. For the first time since she had heard Raoul’s voice in the night, her heart began to slow. 

She had wanted to say something to him, something important and true, but it was utterly gone now. Whatever Erik asked her, she would obey despite the pain; the reasons did not matter, she told herself. She sighed as he wept against her skin and she stared up at painted stars. 

 

The bang of the door closing was like a cannon blast. Raoul’s hands flew to his head and the movement woke him further and also served to make him sicker. The sound of a full tray being set down beside him made the pounding in his head double.

“Good God…” Raoul groaned. 

“I’m so sorry, Sir, I did not mean to disturb you,” his valet apologized in a whisper. “I will alert Monsieur Le Comte that you’re awake.” 

Raoul turned over in the bed and the movement made the entire world spin. Everything was foggy and painful. Why? 

Raoul opened his eyes and instantly regretted it. He could not recall a worse hangover in his life, even from his first days in the service. He tried to focus in the blinding brightness and remember the reason for his suffering. What was wrong with his neck and why did he feel like wild horses had trampled him?

“Thank God you’re awake!” Raoul winced as Sabine burst into the room.

“For heaven’s sake, Sabie, we should let him rest!” Philippe thundered, following behind her, and another wave of throbbing echoed in Raoul’s head.

“No, I’m awake,” Raoul protested groggily, making a difficult attempt at sitting up. He was still wearing the last night’s shirt and trousers and he reeked of liquor and grime. “How in hell did I get home?”

“The police brought you, if you must know,” Sabine declared and Raoul tried to focus his bleary eyes on her furious expression. 

“The police?” Raoul gaped. 

“A gendarme found you and Antoine in the Bois right before dawn,” Philippe clarified more patiently, seating himself on the edge of the bed and handing Raoul something medicinal smelling from the tray. Raoul drank it down as he tried to understand the words. Antoine. The Bois…

“Oh God, Christine…” The cup dropped from Raoul’s hand and the pain in his head tripled. Christine’s face was the last thing he had seen.

“I knew she had something to do with this!” Sabine grimaced. 

Raoul swallowed, trying to piece the fragments of memory together. Antoine’s laughter. The taste of too much brandy. Her face full of sadness. He had chased after her…

“She ran,” Raoul recalled aloud. Sabine rolled her eyes and threw her hands up in consternation.

“You’re lucky to be alive and all you can think of is that damn girl,” Sabine accused and Philippe waved her away. 

“Was that why you were out there? You were following some fool story of Antoine’s?” Philippe asked and Raoul nodded slowly, the soberer parts of the night becoming easier to recall.

“Then it serves that idiot right,” Sabine snapped and Philippe sent her a glare.

“What?” Raoul blinked and Philippe turned back to him, clearly struggling for words. “Where is Antoine?”

“He’s home, but very badly hurt,” Philippe grudgingly explained. 

Raoul squinted at his brother. “Hurt?” Raoul hated echoing everything his sibling said but nothing was making sense. 

Philippe sighed heavily and Sabine looked about ready to weep. “He certainly got the worst of things, compare to you. Either he put up much more of a fight or whatever ruffians you encountered spared you for some reason.” 

Raoul blinked, trying to remember a fight. He swallowed and the smarting in his neck was suddenly like a child pulling at his sleeve. 

“But Christine was there…” He touched his throat gingerly and the faint pain was like a splash of cold water. Another fragment of memory fell into place: the feel of a cold, fierce hand around his throat. “And she was not alone.”

“Is that any wonder,” Sabine sneered. 

Raoul shook his head trying to make things clearer. Antoine had said something like that, hadn’t he? They had been there looking for Christine and her lover. No not, her lover.

“The ghost.” 

“What?” Sabine snapped. Philippe was staring at him in concern.

“Now Raoul, you don’t still believe that madness about Christine and some phantom,” Philippe grumbled. 

“He’s not a phantom,” Raoul stated, trying to more clearly recall what he had seen. “I saw him. I saw…” 

A timid knock at his door made all three siblings turn to glare at a terrified footman.

“Monsieur le Comte, there is a young lady here to see Monsieur le Vicomte,” the servant stuttered. 

“Did you tell her that my brother is unwell?” Sabine growled. Raoul felt terribly sorry for the young man.

“She says she has a message that must be personally delivered to Monsieur le Vicomte and no one else and that she will she’ll wait as long as needed,” the footman recited nervously.

“Does this brave messenger give you a name?” Sabine demanded, taking a dangerous step towards the quaking boy.

“No Madame, but she said something about a practice…I think she’s from the Opera.” Sabine gave a frustrated cry as Raoul jumped from the bed. He ignored the nausea and the searing pain in his skull as he rushed downstairs. He tripped and caught himself on the edge of a couch as he staggered into the front parlor. Meg spun in surprise to face him. 

“Raoul! Are you hurt?” Meg cried, racing to meet him. The look of concern and joy on her young face would have been flattering but all that mattered was the note in her hand.

“I’ll be fine,” Raoul panted. “You have a message? Is it from Christine?” Meg held the note out to him and Raoul snatched it immediately.

“She found me at rehearsal this morning and told me to give it you as soon as I could,” the dancer explained shakily as Raoul tore the envelope open. He tried to focus on Christine’s writing but his eyes and mind were still not working well enough. At last the words came into focus.

_Raoul_ ,  
 _I pray this reaches you before you have done anything rash or spoken to anyone of what you must think you saw. Please believe me when I tell you that I am in no danger but also that it is vital to your safety and mine that you speak to no one of this. If you must know the truth, meet me at the Masquerade tomorrow night. Wear white and look for me by the great crush room at ten o’clock._  
 _~Christine_

Raoul read and re-read the missive, trying to force himself to understand. He had seen her with the man who pretended to be a ghost and she was terrified, though he could not say if it was of the man’s wrath or of discovery.

“Did she say anything to you?” Raoul asked Meg numbly. 

“I tried to talk to her, I did, but she never answers me when I ask about where she goes,” Meg replied dejectedly. “She’s with the ghost, isn’t she?” Raoul looked up at younger woman, her green-blue eyes were full of worry and confusion. “You saw them.”

“You read it?” 

Meg nodded guiltily. 

“I saw her with a man in a mask. A man of flesh and blood,” Raoul answered, fingering his neck.

“I always thought it odd that a ghost should need a box,” Meg muttered, her face fraught with disappointment and confusion.

“She was worried I would do something rash,” Raoul mused, looking back at the letter and imagining the strange masked man looming over it as she wrote it. 

“Like going to the managers or the police?” Meg guessed. “You can’t. They can’t help and you know. You shouldn’t even go after her now.”

“Are you saying I should give up?” Raoul snapped angrily but the concern in Meg’s face only grew.

“I’m saying he may not be a real ghost, but he is more than a man.” Raoul regarded the dancer, the only friend or ally he had in all of this. If she was this frightened of the ghost, what would Christine be feeling?

“I’m going to the Masquerade, and I am going to finally learn the truth,” Raoul stated determinedly and Meg grew pale. “No force in heaven or earth or anywhere else will keep me from her.”

“Then I will help you,” Meg promised, though it seemed to hurt her terribly to say so. “Because heaven and earth will certainly try.”


	14. Masquerade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hide your face so the world will never find you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess there is some slight dubcon in this one, so, be warned.

“Erik?” 

He started from the dream at the sound of Christine’s voice. He blinked hazily and tried to focus on her face in the shadows beside him. Her hand was hovering near his face and her expression was full of alarm. He had been on the stage, with the whole world staring at his unmasked face. She had asked him to be there then disappeared with the boy. And then there had been nothing but redness and screaming. 

“You were crying out.”

“You’re still here,” he murmured, taking her face in his hands to make sure she was real.

“Of course I’m still here,” she reassured him, stroking his arm with tenderness he could not imagine ever deserving. “You asked me to stay.” 

It was so impossible though, why would she be there? Erik closed his eyes again and tried to think back on the day. 

They had awoken amidst the wreckage of the night before and he had returned her to her room and tried to sleep alone in his. It had only been an hour before she woke. Then they had taken her message to the younger Giry. It had been Christine’s idea, to meet the boy at the masquerade…Erik sighed at the thought. There would be no dancing with her now.

They had returned home in silence then lost themselves in music. It was the only consolation. All the words between them had seemed like a careful dance around everything left unsaid and undone. They had sung out their pain and rage and heartbreak for hours, and he could barely remember her voice ever sounding so marvelous. When the evening had come he had expected her to retreat to her own room, but she had come back to his arms. She had come to his bed and kissed him and he had begged her to stay. And she had said yes. 

He had asked her again and again if she truly wanted him to touch her, if he was hurting her, if she needed him to stop and again and again she had reassured him. He had only used his mouth and hands, soft and gentle as he could bear until he was sure she was satisfied. It would take more than one night of tenderness to atone for what he had done before though. 

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. He touched his face without meaning to and drew back in disgust, his hand contracting into a painful fist.

“Be careful, your hands…” Christine warned gently, taking his hand in hers as she shifted her body next to him. He opened his eyes, taking in her disheveled beauty in the dim candlelight. She pushed back his hair and touched his cheek. “Yours hands belong to me. They make my music. I won’t have you ruining them.” 

“I shall try to be better,” he surrendered, helpless against her concern, however ill-placed it was. There was more honest worry in her eyes than he remembered seeing during the day, though he had avoided looking. He did not deserve that either.

“Are you sure you want to take me up early, I don’t have to…” she offered warily.

“No, you need a costume and I have a bet to win,” he consoled her, hoping that if he sounded strong and calm, he would be. The mention of the bet they had made earlier – that he could find her in the masquerade without knowing what costume she would be wearing – made her smile grudgingly.

“Are you really that sure I’ll know you?” she asked curiously. 

He had refused to tell her what he planned to wear, much to her frustration. He was glad of it now, for a new, mad idea was forming in his brain.

“I am absolutely certain of it,” he murmured, fingering the red velvet of the robe cast over her. “As certain as I am that I will find you.” 

She gave a small, resigned sigh and did not let go of his hand as she settled her head against his chest. “There’s no need for bad dreams. Everything will be safe after tomorrow.” 

He was not sure if it was a question, a hope or a promise. If he were a better or braver man, he would hear the regret in her voice and release her from the task she was set to perform, but he was not a better man. He closed his eyes, still fingering her robe and letting the cool air wash over his bare face. Perhaps, in his way, he could be brave.

 

Armand looked down into the Grand Foyer as waiters and footmen scurried about, finishing the final preparations: making sure there was enough champagne ready to fill the Seine, lighting the candles to dispel the gloom that always seemed to gather in the corners, making sure each private box and entry was unlocked to allow for all possible assignations and intrigue. It was already well past sunset, but the fashionable crowds would not be arrive for an hour or so. 

“No, not there, in the rotunda by the box office,” he ordered a pair of waiters in crisp black jackets carrying a case of glasses. The simple black masks they would wear later in the night hung on limp ribbons around their necks. They nodded in an overwhelmed, exhausted manner, their eyes already glazed over a bit. Armand did not envy the small army of workers that been laboring for two days to prepare the Opera. 

The pitiable thing was that the worst part was yet to come: the hours and days of cleaning up after the gala was done. Armand would be there to supervise of course, though not until noon. He respected that the employees would need to nurse hangovers and attend Ash Wednesday services before starting on the task. He wondered if he would even bother with church tomorrow. He had always hated the mark of ash on his forehead. It made him feel like more of a fraud and sinner than any other day.

He strode down the great marble stair, glancing up at the nymphs raising their branches of candles aloft at the bottom. The Opera truly was a beautiful place, when you stopped to look. Soon the stairs and every other nook and cranny of the place would be full of color and noise and hidden faces. He and Richard of course would be easily recognizable in their Opera clothes and black masks so that the patrons could give their polite nods and compliments. He wondered how many would mistake him for a waiter. No one would notice another man in a black coat and mask disappearing into a box with someone else. 

He smiled to himself. Perhaps it was not a bad costume after all.

 

Meg shivered beneath her cloak in the cold night air, huddling in the shadow of the gate to the De Chagny estate. She went over the arrangements again and again in her mind, praying she would not suddenly recall something she had overlooked. At nine o’clock Raoul would come through that gate and they would go together to where the carriage she had hired was waiting. His white domino costume was waiting for him in the carriage as well, a simple cape, mask and feathered tricorn hat. He would have the invitations that would get them in the door, though from what Meg had heard, it was possible for almost anyone to get into one of the Opera’s famous masked balls. Someone had even told her that courtesans often frequented them to meet new admirers. Meg had never been allowed to go before. She of course was not being allowed to go tonight either…

“Are you there?” Meg jumped at the sound of Raoul’s tense voice. 

“Yes! Yes, I’m here!” Meg squeaked, darting out from the side if the gate. Raoul looked as nervous as she felt, though she expected for very different reasons. “Everything is ready.” 

Raoul swallowed as he began to move down the boulevard at Meg’s side.

“Where does your family think you are?”

“Visiting Antoine,” Raoul answered, though the lie was clearly distasteful to him.

“The man that was with you when you saw her?” Meg asked back curiously. “Has he woken up yet?”

“I have not heard so,” Raoul sighed. “So he will not be able to tell anyone if I did not actually see him.”

“That’s quite smart then.” Raoul barely nodded at the feeble compliment and Meg felt her cheeks grow warm. They reached the carriage quickly and woke the snoring driver as they climbed in. Raoul shook his head as he looked at the costume she had procured.

“You don’t have to come with me, it may be dangerous,” he warned distracted. “This man seems capable of anything.”

“There will be a thousand people there, I’m not worried,” Meg reassured him and he gave a resigned shrug. “Besides, I would rather be with you than anywhere else,” she added under her breath. 

Raoul caught her eyes curiously and a halting smile broke over his face. “Well, you’re the only one,” he muttered bashfully. 

Meg smiled boldly and reached across to take Raoul’s hand. He seemed surprised by the contact but did not reprimand her.

“You’re a good friend, Margaret Giry, to Christine and to me,” he told her kindly. 

Meg blushed again. “No one ever calls me Margaret,” she reminded him shyly. 

Raoul smiled again and even in the dim gaslight through the carriage windows, she was sure she had never seen anything so beautiful in her life. “Then it is shall be my unique honor to be the only one.” 

Meg’s head spun at the words, even as Raoul let her hand go and turned to begin putting on his white cloak. There was a part of her that could not understand at all how Christine could continue to run from such a man, but another selfish voice inside her wanted her friend to keep running, far and fast.

 

Shaya adjusted the purple velvet cape over his shoulders as he pushed through the crowd on the Avenue de l’Opera. He was not even inside and already the noise and chaos was astounding. The way it made his vision constrict and his skin crawl reminded him that he had lived far too long alone. 

Everyone in Paris seemed to be converging on the Opera, intent on one more night of debauchery, extravagance and indulgence before the dour season of Lent began. A reveler jostled Shaya from behind in their rush towards the door, and Shaya spun to give a reprimand. The skull mask that confronted him made his pulse quicken before he realized it was nothing but papier-mâché. 

“Apologies,” a deep voice noted. 

Shaya crossly straightened his turban and gave a nod. Shaya turned back and followed the crowd inside. None of the attendants at the doors were checking invitations or identities, which considerably lightened Shaya’s mood. He was still glad of the black mask around his eyes.

Entering the grand foyer was like walking into an explosion of color and noise. The music of the small orchestra hidden beneath the stairs off the rotunda strained over the laughter and chatter of hundreds of revelers. Some had made even less effort at a real costume than Shaya, wearing only a mask to match their shinning silk gowns or black, swallow-tailed coats, but the others who had taken the ball as an opportunity to indulge their wildest fantasies far outnumbered them. 

Everywhere Shaya looked was a new color and characters: fairies, bulls, devils, goddesses, cats, kings, ghouls and heroes. There was laughter and gossip in every corner, amid the clink of glasses filled to overflowing with champagne. There were performers set throughout the crowd, jugglers and dancers and illusionists. People were dancing and running and yelling all around, free of the burden of their own identities. Shaya was not the only one simply standing and staring at the spectacle around him. He did suspect, however, that he was the only one looking for someone who always wore a mask. 

Each time Shaya saw a white mask through the crowd his heart leapt, but each sighting proved futile. He saw no one in the crowd who moved like Erik, with that strange, monstrous grace, nor did he see anyone of the correct skeletal build or imposing height. Shaya wound his way slowly through the crowd, not giving up. He ascended towards the grand salon a level above the foyer. He glanced into the mirrored room but did not enter, instead contenting himself with a perch overlooking the grand staircase and the entrances to several salons. 

He continued the watch the endless parade of false faces. It was amazing what one could see just by deciding to really watch. The lovers’ spat taking place in the corner; the wife dismissing her drunken husband in favor of a young satyr; the pickpocket liberating a handful of franc notes from a harlequin’s purse. Each scene would have been fascinating were Shaya not intent on other prey. The world swept around him in a sea of masks, the movement unrelenting, save for a few figures that remained as still he was. No, not a few – just one.

Shaya’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the figure in the dark, hooded cloak that remained an island of stillness in the chaos. Whoever it was had kept their back to Shaya and was focused intently on the entrance to one of the salons. They were waiting or looking for someone as surely as he was. Shaya held his breath, though he was not sure why, and prayed for the figure in black to move or turn, or give him some other clue. He did not even take his eyes off the figure when he heard a quiet murmur begin blow.

 

Raoul swore to himself as he checked his pocket watch. It was past ten o’clock and the boisterous crowd was so thick he could barely make his way up the stairs.

“Wait for me here,” he told Meg, too preoccupied with finding Christine to worry about the young dancer. “She said to come alone.” 

He turned back to his accomplice as they finally reached the top of the staircase on the grand tier level. Meg was wearing white as well, a diaphanous costume accented in gold, with delicate angel’s wings flowing from her back. She had seemed so shy when she had revealed it and yet truly moved when he told her how lovely she looked.

“Are you sure?” she asked, her face betraying clear dejection even through her white mask. 

Raoul frowned; he did not want to make her feel as if she had not been of great help. He tilted his head and squeezed her bare shoulder. “I’ll be fine,” he reassured her. 

Meg nodded glumly, turning back down towards the auditorium. 

Raoul caught a look of interest in her eyes that was almost like fear, but disregarded it as he rushed towards the salons. He spun aimlessly in the crowd, pushing with great difficulty against a tide of people that all seemed to be moving in the direction opposite him. “For God’s sake…”

“Hush.” 

Raoul jumped at the sound of the familiar voice and the feel of a gloved hand on his wrist. He turned and met the green eyes he had dreamed of for so long. 

Christine was dressed in a flowing black cloak covered in what looked like feathers of silk and with a sinister hood that was made to look like the head and beak of a bird, her face was covered with a black mask. She raised a finger to her lips to signal for silence and took his hand, guiding him past the small balconies that looked down on to the grand staircase. Everyone seemed to be crowding towards them and a loud murmur was rippling through the throng.

“What on earth is everyone looking at?” he asked aloud, forgetting the order for quiet as he craned his neck to see past the swarm. 

Christine did not reprimand him though, she had found a place with a clear view down to the stair and stopped dead in her tracks so abruptly that Raoul nearly crashed into her. He followed her eyes and the eyes of the entire crowd down to the double horseshoe staircase, and knew immediately what was causing the uproar. The sight made the blood in Raoul’s veins turn to ice. 

“Oh my God,” Christine gasped beside him. 

Raoul wanted to look at her, see if there was fear or amazement in her eyes to mirror what was in her voice, but he could not look away from the figure below: death himself, clad head to toe in scarlet red.

It was a costume like nothing Raoul had ever seen in his life. The specter wore a wide, plumed hat and a great red silk cape that flowed behind him like blood as he stalked up the grand staircase. He was unusually tall and thin, and his clothes were rich and wondrous, lined and accented with black and gold, but it was not the riot of red velvet that made the figure terrifying, it was the mask he wore. It was like a skull or the face of a corpse, with a sunken, horrible hole for a nose and terrible deep-set eyes. The skin – Raoul had to remind himself it was not real skin – was taut over jagged, sharp cheekbones and was marred by terrible scars, as if from long ago battles against the devil himself. Whatever artist had made such a mask had to be a mad genius. It was utterly horrific.

“Red death stalking abroad,” a deep voice behind a devil’s mask muttered as the ghoulish figure made his steady way up the grand staircase, the crowd parting before him in terror. 

He came at last to the landing before the entrance to the theater and turned slowly, surveying the crowd with eyes that seemed to burn. The revelers grew silent as the deathly gaze passed over them one by one. Raoul felt Christine’s hand tighten on his as Red Death’s eyes swept up to the galleries and seemed to look at each masked face staring at him with slow, defiant curiosity. Who was he searching for? 

“We should go now…” Christine muttered the moment Raoul thought it, but it was too late: Red Death had found them. 

 

Erik concentrated intently on keeping his face completely still as he looked up into the galleries at the figure of the raven beside a gaping boy in white. It would never do for death to smile, not when everyone in the gawking crowd thought his monstrous face was a mask. 

He watched as Christine shook her head and began to pull the boy away from their viewpoint. The young noble seemed to be having none of it though and kept staring at him. That’s right, young sir, keep looking. You will not know it or believe it, but this is the face of the man that has taken an angel from you.

At last Christine succeeded in wrenching the boy away. Erik followed them with his gaze, listening to the curious murmur that ran through the crowd as he did. They were heading to the boxes, where they could talk alone and she could tell him face to face that she belonged to another. 

The pleasant train of thought halted abruptly as Erik saw another figure moving with clear purpose several lengths behind them. As surely as he recognized Christine he knew exactly who it was that was attempting to follow her, and it would not do at all.

 

Meg held on to the marble banister for support as Red Death turned and began to make his way up the opposite stair. People scrambled out of his path, some crossing themselves and others simply staring at the terrifying apparition, their mouths slack. Meg took a deep breath for courage and forced her legs to move, turning and rushing up to the grand tier level and making a quick circuit of the galleries to the other side. It was times like these when she appreciated being small. She could duck through the crowds, flitting between people without giving anyone a second thought. 

She caught sight of Red Death again, shivering at just the thought of the name that had spread through the crowd like wildfire. He turned and startled a group a girls who shrieked and scurried away as he stalked toward the stairs to the higher boxes. Meg gathered all her resolve as she sped in another direction, passing right behind the terrible figure to take a different set of stairs. It felt like walking over a grave.

Meg raced up the stairs, past a pair of lovers caught in a passionate embrace and a young woman stumbling drunkenly back down to the party. She came to the second level of the boxes. There were still people there, though much fewer than below. Would Christine have taken Raoul some place higher, to the third or fourth tier? She did not see anyone in solid black or white, though there was another curious figure in a purple cape and turban that seemed to be searching for someone as well. 

Meg kept heading higher, reaching the third tier quickly. This level was nearly deserted but not entirely. Meg heard the sound of a door clicking shut and her heart jumped, even as the figure of Red Death emerged slowly from the other stair and turned to look directly at her.

“They went up farther!” Meg yelped as the specter in red took a graceful step towards her. 

God, even the way he moved was absolutely unearthly…Meg’s heart was pounding as he regarded her, cocking his death’s head curiously and not saying a word. His eyes seemed to bore into her, almost glowing in the dim gaslight. It was the eyes that confirmed for Meg what she had guessed before, what she was sure everyone was guessing, but was too frightened to say. 

He nodded slowly and turned away. She turned and ran as fast as she could in the other direction, intent on returning to the second tier to hide. She did not want to be there when the ghost realized she had lied.

 

Christine leaned against the door of the box, out of breath from the flight. Erik knew what she meant to do, why in God’s name was he following her? Her mind was still reeling from the sight of him. The spectacle of that face in the real world, amid the swirling color and light had been so jarring and terrifying. 

Some mad part of her had wanted to laugh at the cruel irony of it and another had wanted to weep at the horror in the eyes of the crowd as they looked down at the face she kissed each night. Yet another part of her had been furious and frightened that Erik had truly proved that he, and with it all she had done and was, would always find her, no matter where she ran. 

“Christine what is going on?” Raoul demanded impatiently. “What are we running from? Who is that _thing_?”

“Be quiet,” she ordered sharply, cringing at the insult.

“Why are you so frightened?” he asked back, his voice rising petulantly. 

Christine turned and ignored him, opening the door an inch to peer out. “He went up higher…” she muttered too soon. “Damn it, no…” 

Erik’s red boot appeared on the stairs and Christine’s heart began to pound. This was not supposed to happen…

“Is that him? Is that your ghost?” Raoul grabbed the door and pushed it further open, enough to get a clear look at Erik. “Finally…”

“No!” Christine gasped, shoving Raoul back violently and throwing the entire weight of her body against the door, forcing it closed. “You will never face him Raoul, _never_ ,” she growled as Raoul stumbled back and stared at her in hurt confusion. 

She was panting, the effort of maintaining her resolve exhausting her already. The sweet, dejected brown eyes behind his mask made her stomach twist in painful knots. Was this why Erik had followed, to remind her of what she had to do and why?

“Then that is he then, your bloody ghost? Why can I not face him?” Raoul continued angrily, though he did not attempt to get past her. “Is he too great a coward to confront me in a fair fight or show his true face?” 

Christine gave a sick, hollow laugh. “You have no idea what you are talking about,” she muttered, shaking her head. “There are no such things as ghosts…”

“There we are in perfect agreement,” Raoul grimaced and pulled off his mask. It was so strange to see a mask removed to reveal a normal, sweet, living face like an angel should have. “Whoever that man is, he is not a ghost. A ghost could not do this to me or what was done to Antoine.” Raoul pulled down his collar to show Christine a series of livid, purplish bruises on his throat. 

Christine shut her eyes. Raoul’s callous anger and the reminder of what was at stake made things easier.

“Please, Raoul,” Christine begged quietly. “I did not ask you here so you could accuse him or me.”

“I thought you asked me here so you could tell me the truth,” he shot back. 

Christine took a deep breath. “And so you shall have it.”

 

Shaya slammed his fist against a marble column in frustration. They had moved too quickly for him and he had been wrong in his instinct to look for them on the second tier. It might be possible to go box to box searching for the pair, but that would take too long. 

Shaya shook his head as the few tittering revelers on the level scampered past him, like rats fleeing a fire. The strangeness of the mass departure struck him a moment too late and he was completely unprepared to see Erik’s terrible face staring at him when he turned. 

Red Death laughed quietly as Shaya stumbled back.

“Good evening, Daroga,” Erik purred, though his face remained absolutely still, maintaining the illusion it was a mask. “You know, this is a celebration, why on earth must you insist on working?”

“Your singer is meeting someone as we speak,” Shaya sneered back, hoping to wound Erik if could do nothing else. “And I wanted to know what she is telling him.”

“Do you think she will tell him who I am?” Erik asked without a hint of concern. “Do you think she will give him my name and all my crimes so you will have an ally on your pointless search for vengeance?” 

“So it is De Chagny then?” Shaya shot back, savoring the slight triumph.

“Is that the boy’s name?” Erik replied boredly. “Don’t look so proud of yourself, Daroga, I know what she is doing and I know exactly what she is saying, if you are so curious to know.” 

Shaya swallowed, his confidence evaporating and Erik took a step towards him. 

“She is telling him that he should give up on her, turn back and never think of her again.”

“And why would she say that?” Shaya countered through gritted teeth, his hands tensing into fists as Erik drew even closer. 

“Because I asked her to.” 

Shaya blinked, perplexed by the easiness of Erik’s response. “And what sort of threat did that require?” he shot back. Shaya shuddered as the horrific face of Red Death came alive into a cold, cruel smile.

“A week ago you wanted to know what she was to me,” Erik intoned, his beautiful voice absolutely terrifying in its surety. “Well I have an answer for you, though I doubt you will ever believe it. What she is, Daroga, is… _mine_.” 

There was something about the glint in Erik’s eyes, the triumph in his tone that made Shaya’s heart stop at the proclamation. So all the rumors and all his most lurid suspicions were true.

“And if that boy tries to take her?” Shaya asked stonily. 

Erik stepped back, shaking his head discouragingly. “Pray he does not, Daroga, for his sake and that of anyone that tries to help him, yourself included,” he warned. “Such terrible accidents can happen in the dark of night.” Erik turned smoothly on his heel, sweeping his great red cape after him. 

Shaya stared grimly after him. “So now the truth comes out,” he whispered to the absent ghost. 

Shaya smiled to himself, a strange, terrible hope forming in his heart. The injuries Shaya had sought revenge for had never been truly his own – he had sought death for death, pain for pain. There had been no way to punish Erik and make him feel what Shaya himself had suffered, no possibility of torturing the monster with a similar loss. 

Until now.

 

Meg’s entire body was shaking as she emerged from behind the plinth, sure she was as pale as the marble bust perched atop it. The Persian was not the ghost’s ally but his pursuer. He knew who the phantom was, but did not dare reveal it. He hoped to recruit Raoul to his cause, but if Raoul tried to save Christine, he would die. 

The thought made Meg so sick she sank to the floor, trembling with the weight of secrets. Raoul would die just as Buquet had died. He had to give up immediately, there was no question of it, but how could she make such a thing happen? She could not tell him what Christine was – though Meg could barely fathom what the ghost had even meant in saying Christine was _his_ – for to reveal that would reveal too much else. She had to find some other way to protect him, something to make him forget Christine forever. 

 

“I never want to see you again,” Christine told Raoul, straightening her posture haughtily and summoning all her will to make the words calm and cold. Raoul shook his head.

“I don’t believe that,” he argued automatically.

“You don’t have to believe it, it’s the truth.” It was, in a way. She never wanted to see his face again and remember what a face should be or think of summer days and another impossible life. “I want you to stop following me or trying to save me or whatever it is you think you are doing.”

“You summoned me here, after what that fiend did to Antoine, after all you’ve acknowledged he’s done, just to tell me this?” Raoul balked.

“I knew you would never believe it in a letter,” Christine answered hastily, remembering Erik’s miserable words to the same effect. “I do not want to be with you, Raoul. I chose him.”

“Christine, this man has done terrible things…” She cut him off with a cruel laugh.

“Raoul, you have been listening to too many of Meg’s silly stories,” she derided him. It would be better if Raoul could be convinced her lover and the legendary opera ghost were not the same, if such a thing was still possible.

“No, I haven’t,” Raoul protested seriously, taking a cautious step towards her. “I don’t know how it is possible or what it even means, but the opera ghost that has haunts you, the one that put you on the stage and kept you there, is a man; a dangerous, evil man. I will not believe these are your true feelings or wishes.” 

Christine stared at Raoul from behind the protective shield of her mask, ordering her mouth to speak the words he had to hear. “He can offer me more than you ever could,” she told Raoul tightly. 

He shook his head again, and took her gently by the shoulders

“Look me in the face and tell me you are not a prisoner,” he ordered earnestly, the concern and doubt in his eyes tearing at her heart. 

Christine slowly lifted her mask, wondering distantly if this terror was anything like what Erik felt when he removed his. The appalled look on Raoul’s face made her wince.

“I can leave whenever I want,” she lied, her voice thin and strained. 

“You are a great actress, Christine, but not enough so to make me believe that,” he murmured, sadness filling his eyes. “He may have ordered you here to tell me you hate me, but I will never believe that. I know you. I’ve loved you since I was a boy. You are not that cruel.” 

Christine felt tears stinging the corners of her eyes. He had no idea how cruel she was. 

“The girl you loved is gone,” she whispered. It was perhaps the first truly honest thing she had told him the entire night.

“No, she’s not, but I can see her dying,” Raoul countered softly, touching Christine’s cheek. His hands were soft and warm, and his eyes were so clear and sure. “I can see you drowning.”

“Raoul, I’m not a scarf you can snatch from the sea,” Christine whispered tearfully. “If you try to save me, the tide will take us both. You must let me go.”

“No, you know that’s not true,” he argued with all the fire and hope he had always shown. “You can leave with me right now, we can run and never turn back. We can start a new life, together.” 

“Raoul, I don’t _want_ to run,” she confessed and he recoiled from her. It was a relief to finally find what she could say to drive him away. “Even if I wanted to, Raoul, I can’t. He would find me.”

“I’ll protect you, I swear it, please just give me a chance to try. I’ll do anything…” he promised but it was Christine’s turn to shake her head.

“It wouldn’t be enough,” she sighed as she pulled her mask back on to her face. He knit his brows dejectedly. “If you faced him, you’d lose.”

“At least tell me _why_ you won’t run,” he demanded crossly.

“Because his heart is worth more to me than yours,” she spat quickly, the words bitter on her tongue in their truth. He gaped at her as if she had slapped him. “I meant it when I said it: I never want to see you again. If you care for me at all, you will honor my wish and forget me.” 

She did not give him time to reply. The look in his eyes was proof enough that she had finally done what Erik had begged of her and broken his heart.

She flew from the box, nearly certain he would not follow her. Erik was nowhere to be seen, thankfully. She was not quite ready to report back to him on her grim success. She stalked into a stairway, pushing her regret somewhere deep and far away inside her. She leaned heavily against the marble wall, listening to the raucous sounds of the party below and imagining what other crimes and broken promises hid behind the hundreds of masks. 

There was no past or future for any of them, even her. She breathed deeply, telling herself to be relieved that the ordeal was over. Everyone chose who they would be tonight, and so would she. Tonight there would be no regret.

 

Raoul stayed staring at the door of the box for nearly a quarter of an hour, trying to remember the words and understand what had happened. She had practically admitted she her teacher was this strange phantom, this Red Death. She had even confessed in her own way that he was dangerous. But that was still not enough to keep her away. Just like the death of that stagehand had not been enough to make her fly. Perhaps he had been wrong about her. Perhaps she was cruel. Raoul stumbled from the box, moving back towards the party in a fog.

She didn’t want to run. How? How could that be? What control did this man have over her and who in God’s name was he? Raoul still was unsure. The man was using the legends of the ghost to advance Christine’s career and win her, but _how_ was that truly possible? And why was he still asking himself these stupid questions when it did not matter. She had made it so perfectly clear she had other desires. 

Raoul grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing tray as he rejoined the crowd and downed each in a single gulp. He had half a mind to find Red Death and challenge him to reveal himself right there. A third and fourth glass of champagne and his head was spinning bravely as he saw a flash of blood red through the crowd and heard another gasp.

“There you are…” He lurched forwards but a steady arm shot out before him, holding him back.

“That would not be wise, Monsieur Le Vicomte,” the man warned. He was wearing a turban and a small mask over his eyes, but it did not conceal his dark skin or beard so much that Raoul did not recognize him.

“You!” Raoul growled, his anger redirecting itself. “Who the hell are you! Tell me what you know!”

“I can’t do that Monsieur, I have told you, it is far too dangerous,” the Persian replied calmly. 

Over his shoulder Raoul spied Red Death descending towards the rotunda and out of sight. He gave an angry grunt. The Persian calmly set a hand on Raoul’s shoulder. 

“But perhaps I can be convinced otherwise if you can prove to me that you are truly intent on discovering the truth behind our ghost.”

“Truly intent?” Raoul parroted, suddenly regretting drinking so much so quickly and the way his head was spinning. “You seem to know everything, how do you not know the extent of my intent?”

“This ghost is very hard to catch, Monsieur Le Vicomte,” the Persian replied, shaking his head. Raoul glared at him. “If I were to share my knowledge with you, I need proof that you have the bravery and commitment to discover the beginning of it on your own. Even one such as you who has already lost so many to him must show what you are made of.”

“Lost so many?” Raoul grimaced, wishing the words made more sense. “What proof do you need?”

“Just a name.” 

Raoul blinked. It did not seem so hard, but then again, it had been almost impossible to even discover that the man existed. And again, why would he when Christine…

“Pay no attention to him,” the whisper seemed to shock the Persian as much as it had Raoul. Both men stared as the raven took Raoul by the hand and began to lead him away.

“No, wait…” the Persian protested, but the bird shot him a dangerous look. Raoul followed without question, trying to imagine what had happened or changed to inspire Christine’s return. Had it been seeing him with the Persian? It didn’t matter, she was leading him to the doors that led to the back stage corridor, holding his hand tightly and not looking back. 

It felt dangerous and thrilling to suddenly be alone with her, sure that the ghost was not following behind. The twists and turns and her rapid pace made the liquor move faster through his veins, warming his cheeks and softening the entire world.

“Christine, what is going on?” he asked, dazed. 

They had come to her dressing room. She gave him another signal for quiet as she pulled him inside. A single lamp was burning low on the vanity and it was otherwise dark and incredibly hard to really see. 

“You just told me you never wanted to see me again…” He stopped arguing when she kissed him. 

He sank into the embrace, taking her in his arms without another thought. She seemed so small and fragile, he thought deliriously as she pushed off his hat and caressed him. Their masks scraped together roughly, but it did not seem to bother her.

“Forget what I said,” she whispered huskily. “Just be with me now, before we’re found.”

“Christine…” 

She kissed him again before he could protest further, with astonishing passion and hunger. Raoul’s heart was almost ready to burst; joy and amazement driving back the confusion and alarm.

“I knew you didn’t mean it,” he muttered as he kissed her neck. “I knew you didn’t love him.”

“I love you,” she sighed, her voice ardent and desire changing the timbre in a way he would never have imagined. “I love you,” she repeated as she pulled him down to the small couch, shaking like a leaf as he did.

“My darling, are you sure?” he asked, a small part of him still sober enough to remember that he was a gentleman. He caught her eyes, marveling how bright they were in the dimness, even shaded by her mask. 

“Yes, my love,” she answered, confirming it with another kiss. Raoul surrendered, giving up on questions. She was finally his and nothing else mattered.

 

Richard turned away from the patrons’ prattling, quite sure they would not notice that a second manager had disappeared. He adjusted the uncomfortable mask, disliking the perspiration that had accumulated beneath it. He ignored the cries of the crowd and the sweet sounds of the orchestra as he found his way down to the rotunda, where he had left her. She had not moved from her place beside the fountain, the bronze statue of a nymph smiling benevolently over the water.

“Isn’t it good to be out?” he asked, failing to sound as kind or comforting as he had intended, likely because he himself hated parties so much.

“I should not be here,” Carlotta muttered, shaking her head slowly, making the strings of pearls in her great white wig jostle and sway. 

“There is nothing to be afraid of…” He regretted saying it the moment the words left his lips and Carlotta’s cheeks went pale beyond the edge of her mask. He turned to follow her gaze and fought an involuntary wave of fear. Red Death had entered the rotunda.

“He’s come, he’s come for me…” Carlotta whispered in terror, taking Richard’s arm for support. “The phantom…”

“That thing is not a ghost,” he stated through his scowl, finding the proclamation rather hard to believe himself as the hideous mask came closer and the throng fell back from his slow progression among them.

“Please, let me leave,” she begged, tugging at his arm. Her fear made his anger flare, remembering the hours with her and arguments with doctors and family he endured to keep her in Paris. Now was the chance to prove to her there was no ghost. 

Richard shrugged her off roughly, determined and grim. Red Death had his back to him, it would be easy to snatch that awful mask off the man’s face. 

The monster spun, quick as fire, and locked Richard’s wrist in a brutal grasp. The entire crowd gasped. The hand was bony, rough and incredibly cold and Richard cried out in pain as Red Death twisted his arm to an unnatural angle, but it was a solid, human hand. He saw Carlotta whimper and retreat from the corner of his eye.

“You are too bold, fool…” the shade hissed, his voice dark and deadly.

“And you, Monsieur, are too cold.” 

Even Richard turned to look for the source of the deep, defiant female voice. A woman in a sparkling, scandalously revealing dress of black and silver was standing alone, her hand on her hip and a smirk on her deep red lips. She wore a silver crown in her black hair and a sparkling mask of lace and crystal smeared itself over her face. 

“Who are you to command death?” Red Death demanded, letting Richard go and tossing him aside, intent on his new adversary. 

She laughed softly as the phantom stared at her; a deep, smoky laugh that snapped like a dying fire. “Even the dead have a queen, as does the night.” A murmur went up through the crowd as the woman stepped boldly toward the corpse in red. “And she would have even the most fearsome of her subjects bow before her.” 

Red Death regarded the woman and Richard stumbled back into the crowd, fingering his tender wrist. The woman was obviously mad, he told himself, sure that everyone else around him was thinking the same. Even the orchestra had stopped playing to gawk at the confrontation.

“A rare bird indeed,” Red Death intoned coolly and the woman laughed again. There was something heathen and seductive about the sound. 

“Will you submit then?” she asked, coming within arms’ length of the specter. 

The whole room seemed to be holding its breath then gasped as one as Red Death bowed gracefully to the laughing Queen of the Night. She extended a hand to him and the murmurs burst into a full-blown cacophony as Red Death took it. She gave a wave of her black-gloved hand and the orchestra began to play again. 

It was suddenly as if the apparition that had so terrified the party had disappeared and in his place was just another man, taking a woman in his arms to dance. 

Richard turned away, shaking his head. He had seen more than enough.

 

When Erik had thought of attending unmasked, he had never anticipated it would be so incredibly difficult not to smile. He tilted his head closer to hers and enjoyed the sparkle of the lights in her green-gold eyes as they moved across the floor. 

“A clever trick,” he whispered without moving his lips, savoring the mischievous sound of her laughter and the look of her long thin neck as she threw her head back.

“I thought so,” Christine agreed quite smugly. “Admit it; you weren’t sure for a moment!” 

“Perhaps…for a moment,” he acquiesced. “But I’d already won anyway.” 

She gave a petulant grimace. “I guess that leaves us even,” she offered as he spun her. “Do we both get to collect?”

“If you insist,” he agreed and she laughed again. He could not tell at all if she was truly happy or had just chosen mirth as another part of her costume. Whatever the truth, he did not care. She was dancing with him before all of Paris, laughing in his arms. “You are truly a wonder,” he murmured adoringly. 

“How so?” she asked, cocking her head rather proudly.

“You’ve given me the greatest disguise I could ever imagine, they look at you with me, and they can believe I am a normal man, just for tonight.” 

Her eyes softened behind her mask, the familiar pity returning and her shy perfect smile revealing itself again. “Then we should make it last.” 

 

Her cry of pain made Raoul pause in mid movement, drawing back from the kiss. 

“No, please, keep going,” she begged pulling him back to her, even though the pain was more than she had ever imagined it would be. “Please.”

“Christine…” he sighed in worry, kissing her deeply again. Another thrust and tears sprang to her eyes, though perhaps it had been the name or the sound of love in his voice. 

She gave another cry, gripping him tightly as he started to move faster, one of his soft hands holding her skirts above her hips, another gripping the couch beside her face. She could smell his sweat and the scent of too much champagne on his breath. 

“Tell me again that you love me,” she begged, her voice thick with hurt. 

“I love you, I always have,” he obeyed instantly. 

It made it better, to hear the words without the name. The pain had started to fade, but her thighs were beginning to ache from the movement. Should she be moving too? She shifted her body slowly beneath him, remembering the way the older girls had danced when their patrons had come to watch. He gave a groan and suddenly he was shaking and then just as suddenly he was still and pulling away from her. He was clearly trying to see her better in the semi-darkness. 

“Are you…alright?” he panted. 

She was not sure how to answer. It had been so quick and strange. “I’ll be fine…” she replied, but her voice was shaking. 

He stood stiffly, righting his clothes and avoiding her eyes.   
“We…shouldn’t have done that…” he muttered. “This wasn’t the way it should have been, after everything. I didn’t even see your face.” 

The full extent of what had transpired seemed to have finally reached him. Her whole body trembled as she rose from the couch and pushed her skirts back down, a smarting pain between her legs. He turned to her and for the first time really seemed to see her. He stared at the white skirts in confusion.

“Raoul…” she began and he sprang towards her, taking her clumsily be the shoulders and pushing the hood and mask away from her face.

“Oh God,” he gasped and Meg felt new tears fill her eyes. “Oh dear God…Christine!”

“She will never be with you,” Meg protested desperately, grabbing for Raoul’s arm as he backed away. “She belongs to him. He’s been her lover from the beginning and she won’t leave him. She’ll break your heart and you deserve so much more than that.”

“I don’t care,” he stammered. Meg stood and forced him to look at her. His face was pale with confusion and betrayal. “Why did you…” 

“Raoul, if you keep after her, it will destroy you, I had to protect you,” Meg sobbed.

“Protect me?” 

She swallowed. He couldn’t know. If he knew that lives were at stake he would never give up. That was why she loved him.

“I’ll tell her, if you try to see her again, I’ll tell her.” He stared at her, aghast, clearly not understanding. “And I’ll tell your family.”

“She wouldn’t…” Raoul began to protest. 

“Please, just let her go,” Meg whispered again, letting go of him and backing away. She couldn’t bear the sight of his suffering or confusion. 

She ran from the dressing room, the cape she had seen Christine discard in the stairway billowing behind her, black demon wings over the white ones she had chosen so proudly just a day before.

Erik let his face relax for a moment, though that threatened to allow the slightest smile to creep over Red Death’s countenance. His mind was already far away, lost in promises whispered by his queen of the night. Soon he would take her again, return home…and all would be forgiven, and perfect…

The sound of deep laughter startled him from his thoughts as two men stumbled from a secluded corner. At the sight of him they both straightened to attention.

“Monsieur,” the taller man nodded in deference, removing his devil’s mask. It was Robert Rameau. Which meant…

“I hope you have…found what it was you came for,” Armand Moncharmin offered shakily, removing his mask as well and giving a small bow.

“All that and much more,” Erik answered slowly and watched both men shiver at the sound of his voice. He inclined his head and moved again, giving the pair a final glance as he continued on his way.

“What was that about?” Erik heard Rameau demand in a husky whisper from behind him.

“The time is coming when everyone will need to chose sides,” Moncharmin answered darkly. “And I wanted him to know which one we have chosen.”

Erik finally gave up the battle he had fought all night, and let a wide, triumphant smile spread over his face.

 

Christine shook her head to herself as she slipped away from the party, choosing to focus on the memory of the scandalized gasps that she had heard when she had leaned to Erik’s ear and told him to meet her in five minutes in her dressing room. No one had heard of course, but everyone had seen the Queen of the Night whispering to Red Death, and it had caused quite an uproar. That memory was so much sweeter than the thought of Raoul’s heartbroken face.

She hummed to herself quietly as she moved through the darkened halls towards her dressing room and the gateway towards Erik’s world. It had been so liberating and thrilling to dance with him, such a perfect balm to the stark reality of never seeing Raoul again. Soon she would be in his arms, able to rest in her secrets, knowing the men who loved her were safe from each other.

She sighed at the thought as she stepped into her dressing room, glancing over the familiar furniture and features: the couch, the dressing screen, the wardrobe and the curtained off storage room, right beside the vanity. She never put anything in there, she mused, she would have to ask Erik what the designer had been thinking when it was built. 

It had not taken her half as long to arrive as she had anticipated, she thought distractedly as she sat down at her vanity. Turning the lamp brighter. She tried to sense Erik’s eyes watching her, but she felt too tired and regretful to concentrate on it. She did not want to just sit and think as she waited for her strange escort to arrive, though there was little she could do to stem the guilty thoughts.

She pulled a few papers from the vanity drawer, dipping her pen and beginning to write. It was the first time in days she had been brave enough to place words on paper aside from the note to Raoul. 

_Tonight, he danced with me_ , she scrawled, again turning to the happier memory first. She wrote everything: their first dance in the Bois, that fleeting, perfect moment of happiness in the moonlight and the disaster and violence that had followed. She wrote of how he had taken her after, the violent, terrible release of it and the equally tragic aftermath and his plea to her. She paused, the memory of his tears on her skin stinging like a fresh wound.

“My poor Erik,” she sighed aloud and it seemed to echo in the silence. 

She turned back to the page. Where was he? She wondered as she finished another sheet. She felt the prickle of observation on the back of her neck the moment she thought it. She sighed again and the sigh became a hum, resonating from the mirror. She folded her writing and hid the pages in her bodice, smiling towards the mirror.

“You’re late, Erik,” she chided as the hum became a song. 

He was singing _Romeo and Juliet_ , of course, she smiled; a strange choice but oddly appropriate. Doomed lovers, linked by fate, _forever and a day_. 

She extinguished the lamp and Erik’s image, holding the lantern aloft, appeared in the mirror. He was still not moving his mouth. Perhaps he enjoyed the illusion his face was just another mask. The mirror swept back and Christine took his offered hand, her voice joining his. The music echoed through the empty dark around them as they descended towards home.

 

Raoul stumbled from behind the little curtain, fumbling in his pockets for matches. He struck a light and cried out when the room revealed itself to be as empty as he had dreaded. He had to have been hallucinating. No, that voice, the beautiful, impossible, perfect voice had been real. Of all the madness of that evening there was nothing he was more sure of than the reality of the angel’s voice. 

He had been wrong, so very wrong to think the man who had ensnared Christine was just some demented impresario. This man, this Red Death, this angel and phantom was far more than that. Raoul spun and swore as the match burned down to his fingertips and extinguished. He lit another and moved to the mirror. 

Christine had smile at the mirror, there had been a light coming from it though he had not been able to see the source. And then she had gone through it! He knew at last how she disappeared. Now he could find her…

Raoul stopped his stomach churning to remember why he had been in Christine’s dressing room. Meg’s kisses and her threat still burnt in his mind. She had not said it, but it had been clear she knew something more, something that made her fear for his life. It had been the same as the Persian warning him again of the danger and demanding a price for the truth. Did he dare the danger and consequences though to find it? 

He stared at the great mirror as the second match’s flame began to dim. At least now he had the price, if he was ready to pay it. He had a name. The flame extinguished as the name echoed in his memory.

“ _Erik_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's the last chapter my dearies. Yes, there's a part three but the rub is that it's not nearly as, uh, written as Angel of Music and Angel of Darkness were, so it might be a little longer in posting. Please do keep an eye out though...I also need to complete the SPN fics I'm working on before diving into that. Questions and comments and anything really is welcome - especially over on my tumblr (which is also persephoneshadow). Happy holidays!


End file.
